


Baker Street Advent 2015

by OtakuElf



Series: Biological Clock [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar, Childbirth, Christmas, Christmas Dinner, Christmas Music, Father Christmas - Freeform, Gen, John's Jumpers, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Nativity scenes, Parentlock, Père Noël - Freeform, Santa's Grottos, Sherlock's Violin, Surrogacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-04 11:22:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 29,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5332346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtakuElf/pseuds/OtakuElf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas is coming!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Day of Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my beta reader, Lunamoth116.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmas, and John, Sherlock, and Siger celebrate!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Lunamoth116 for beta-reading my stuff!

John Watson was singing, “On the first day of Christmas, my madman gave to me - an entry for my blog.”

His partner, the madman, followed behind. “Don’t believe him, Siger. It’s not the first day of Christmas. That comes after Christmas, on December 26th.”

“Down!” Siger demanded. He was keen to show his stair climbing skills up the seventeen steps to their flat. “Down. Wan’ go up.”

John stepped aside and watched as their eighteen-month-old son began the long and slow hike up the wooden steps. Siger was muttering under his breath as he held onto the spindles of the railing. He was not big enough to hold onto the rail itself. He took each step carefully and soberly, paying great attention to detail.

“What is he saying?” his _père_ asked his daddy.

John Watson leaned closed and murmured, “March. March. Up the wooden hill.”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock Holmes hummed in thought. “Siger, would you like some help going up? Daddy can carry you on his back, or I can put you on my shoulders!”

“No!” That was shouted, and Siger stopped his slow process up the fourth step to turn round and continue shouting at his fathers. “Daddy, no! _Père, non!_ ”

Calmly the shorter man said, “Alright, Siger, you may keep going up the stairs by yourself. _Père_ is going to help Miss Alice Brown in the office for a while. We’ll get tea set up and wait for him, shall we?”

The toddler had reached that frustrating stage for child and parent alike, where the world does not move quickly with limbs still growing, but determination to accomplish things like a big person is strong. Grumbling, that little red-curled head turned back to the stairwell and the slow progress continued, the little mite of a person in front holding tightly to each new spindle, patient Daddy behind to ensure that no tragedies occurred.

Sherlock, who was impatient with the slowness of others at the best of times, seized the opportunity to check on an experiment in his laboratory. Really, John thought, he was very patient with the baby. It was amazing to watch. The baby, however, was less patient with himself. And with his fathers.

John was ready for a sit-down when they got to the top and unlatched the baby gate guarding the flat. It was not to be, however. Siger needed a change, a wash, and his blood sugar must have been low because he was cranky. Tea time was more regimented now. Most of Siger’s schedule was time-conscious. Hauling a toddler about was significantly more difficult than tucking an infant into a pram and heading out for parts unknown. The change and the wash up were accomplished in a relatively short time. John had a good deal of practice at this point.

“What should we have for tea, Siger? Toast or biscuits?” John knew it was a tossup. Siger had inherited Sherlock’s sweet tooth, but he’d also acquired John’s taste for jam.

Siger stood still a moment, considering. “Scones.”

John blinked. “Scones? I don’t think we have any today.”

“Gammy Hudson scones,” was the reply, with hands signing the symbol for Mrs. Hudson. 

Sure enough, there was a plate of scones waiting for them on the table, covered with a tea towel. “Why yes, there are scones from Grammy Hudson. How did you know, Siger?” John was always fascinated to watch the little cogs turn in that head. It was just a matter of time before Siger and his _père_ were going back and forth so fast it would make John’s head spin.

Giving a huge sniff, the toddler gave the sign for “smell”. John picked him up and got him settled in the high chair at the table. A bib with a magnifying glass on it was snapped around his neck. Siger got a bottle of milk poured just for him, and John placed a scone well-laden with currant jam on the plastic tray. With a strength of will that was uncommonly strong for one so obviously entering the terrible twos - or perhaps not after all - Siger signed and demanded, “ _Père!"_.

John pulled his mobile from the pocket of the jacket hanging on the back of his own chair and sent off a quick text. Moments later there was the sound of long legs racing up the stairs, two steps at a time. 

“Ah, Mrs. Hudson’s scones? Excellent! Honey on mine, John.” The long-legged detective collapsed gracefully into the kitchen chair.

“Don’t let _Père_ fool you. Siger. He can make his own tea,” the daddy said, raising an eyebrow.

“But I prefer when you make it, John. You like to make it for me. So we’re happy all the way ‘round,” was the expectant reply.

Tea was handed round and the appropriate attention paid to the currant scones created for them by Mrs. Hudson.

Siger proceeded to engulf the scone and paint the jam all over his face. His attention was totally on the food placed in front of him, as a few grapes followed the scone, and not on the topic of conversation. Sherlock and John were discussing a fairly mild case, one that could be talked about without damaging a sensitive, growing brain. 

“What will we be doing this year to celebrate Christmas with the baby on its way?” John changed the subject to one that he’d been trying to get a response about for some time.

“Much the same as last year, I imagine,” Sherlock said, completely forgetting how much Siger had changed over the course of the past eleven months.

John smiled at his son, and commented, “I wonder how much he remembers from last year.”

That got a thoughtful look from his partner. “Data, John. We will gain so much data by repeating a number of the exercises we took part in last year.”

“Traditions, Sherlock, not exercises. I am thinking that we’ll not be going to the late service for church, anyway.” John quirked an eyebrow at the taller, dark-haired man.

“Data!” said Siger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Funny 12 Days of Christmas!
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XXtCSUqKNTk


	2. "We Have Kindled Thousands of Christmas Lights Now"("Nu tändas tusen juleljus")

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fairy lights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to my beta reader, Lunamoth116!
> 
> And to everybody reading!

“Why should it be me up on the ladder?” John Watson asked belligerently, “when it’s you insisting we need to put the lights up?”

His tall, flatmate looked down his nose at the doctor, just returned from a long day at the surgery. John looked fatigued, and had been dealing with flu ridden patients again. Also, Mrs. Patel’s youngest had otitis media. “You did it last year,” was his reply.

John sighed and ran a hand over his face. He could hear Siger chatting away in Mrs. Hudson’s flat. The smell of baking told him that they’d have something good for tea - if he ever got to that point. He looked at the ladder, set out, ready and waiting for him. The horrendous snarl of fairy lights was intimidating, as it lay in an accusatory ball on the floor of the foyer. “Can’t we just throw these out and buy new ones? They’d be easier to put up.”

The dark-haired man standing pointedly by the step-ladder looked at him sideways. Sherlock Holmes opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again to say, “Usually I make suggestions like that. To which you point out that morally it is better to reuse, not to waste, or that we would be better served to save the money for important items.”

Another sigh, and then John leaned down to pick up the ball of tangled lights. “You will untangle these while I change out of my work clothes. Then we will put the lights up together.”

The blond doctor was really not expecting the task to be accomplished by the time he returned down the seventeen steps from their flat. It was a pleasant surprise to jog down the stairs in jeans and trainers to find that not only were the lights untangled, they were blinking as Sherlock tested them at the switch.

“Come now, John,” his partner said much too reasonably. “You left the hooks up from last year. It should be a matter of moments to set these up. Then we are invited to tea with Mrs. Hudson. She and Siger were baking this afternoon, as I know you can smell. Your favorite currant rocks. I believe that Mrs. Hudson is using up the rest of the currants she purchased yesterday.”

Wearily, John Watson climbed the stepladder and gestured for Sherlock to hand him the fairy lights. Sherlock did so, watching his every move intently. Too much interest. “Alright,” John said. “Who died, and how?”

“A bricklayer in Islington. Accident, according to the police. Fell off the stepladder when putting the fairy lights up, entangled himself in a knot of the lights and hanged himself.” Sherlock pulled out a tape measure. “Murder,” he muttered as he measured how much of John’s shoe was firmly standing on the ladder step. “Forensics will need to check the bottoms of his shoes.”

‘Yeah, well, you can text Greg later. Right now you’re helping me put these up so that I don’t kill myself.” John handed down the bulk of the lighting, then turned to hook the first of the lights into the cup hooks he’d installed the previous year.

As they set up the lights, moved the ladder, set up more, Sherlock Holmes vibrated around the bottom of the ladder, mostly silently. “Oh,” he said when they’d gotten a short way round the foyer, “Alice Brown has a Christmas card for us from Mary Watson.”

“Just from Mary?” John asked as he looped the lights along the wooden trim. “Not from her grandparents?”

“Jack Watson and Mary Morstan have sent a separate card. Mary Watson would like us to update her on the whole ‘baby thing’, as she puts it.” Sherlock relayed the information while obviously thinking of something else. Probably holiday murders.

Not having a mind palace, John resorted to remembering Mary Watson as he carefully strung lights up along the stair rail instead of along the spindles. This year Siger would be able to pull at anything below the rail, and John intended to be very careful. 

“Hi! It’s nice to finally meet you!” Mary had said when they’d met shortly after his kidnapping earlier in the year. 

Sherlock, his eye on her coat as he took it from her to hang up, said, “A long flight. Was the woman with the dogs too boring?”

“Granddad Jack told me you would say something like that.” She smiled. Mary Watson looked a good deal like Dr. Jack Watson, minus the mustache of course. She was ginger, and shared a little feminine roundness with Dr. Mary Morstan, who had been a midwife at the Initiative, where Siger had been born. She was taller than her grandparents and they had flown her to London to meet and discuss her offer to donate eggs for _in vitro_ fertilisation to provide a sibling for Siger. Her age was right for fertile eggs, but she was much too young, John had realised, for him to find her attractive. He was, after all, committed to Sherlock, not dead.

“No, I’m used to lonely people,” she continued. “I let her natter on, and eventually she ran out of things to say. Then I took the opportunity to sleep, and when I woke up we were almost ready to land.”

John had liked the girl. She didn’t have to travel to London to meet them, but she told him, “I’ve heard such stories about you from Gram and Granddad Jack. I figured that even if I won’t get to be the mother of the baby, just biological and all, I’d still like to size you up in person.”

She had stayed two weeks, until they’d seen her through the procedure to release the eggs that would be fertilized with John’s sperm, and then implanted into a surrogate.

She’d asked Sherlock to take her on a crime tour of London, and gotten more than she bargained for with the Consulting Detective intervening in a crime scene on the way. That had been a cold, wet day, and not any warmer for standing in the desultory rain listening to Holmes explaining to a Detective Inspector named Dimmock in detail on sewer outlets, and where he would find the evidence he needed to convict an old lady of murder.

John had seen her off at Heathrow on her way back home to Georgia. She’d leaned over to give him a kiss on the cheek before saying, “Now, I want to hear all about the pregnancy, and the baby, step by step. Okay? You’ve got my email.”

John had promised, of course he had. Time had passed by much too quickly since then. Pulling himself out of the memory, he said thoughtfully, “I’ll send Mary an email tonight. Update her on everything.”

“Who?” his partner in crime and life asked, as though startled out of his own thoughts. “Oh, Mary Watson? Surely she can read everything on your blog, like the rest of the world. You’ll post after it’s all over and everyone will send congratulations and that will be that.”

“No, Sherlock, I promised I would keep her updated. I’ll send a note tonight.” John hooked the last bit of lighting up. Done.

Mrs. Hudson came out to enjoy the lights, carrying a very interested Siger. He was examining the line of lights, following it around the dark wood of the foyer. “The lights look lovely, John. Thank you for putting them up!”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and gave John a look. John winked back at him before telling her, “Sherlock and I made a much quicker job of it this year than last, didn’t we?”

That brought a merry look to Mrs. Hudson’s face. “Thank you, Sherlock. And now, are you boys ready for your tea?”

As they sat around Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen table eating currant rocks and drinking tea - well, there was milk for Siger - John gathered it all in, thinking that next Christmas, it would no longer be just the four of them in their growing family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "We Have Kindled Thousands of Christmas Lights Now"("Nu tändas tusen juleljus")
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JfT06kHnHQM


	3. "The joyous news [hear, o my brothers]" ("Wesołą nowinę")

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dreaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you to my beta-reader, Lunamoth116.
> 
> Also, any errors in any language are completely my own. I speak enough German to make myself understood, and enough Japanese to get by. Anything else, other than English, is fragmentary.

John Watson was sleeping, and in that sleep he dreamed not of Christmas, but of almost nine months ago.

“Sherlock,” he’d spoken from behind a book on phlebotomy borrowed from Mike Stamford, propped up on pillows in bed next to his mate. Well, not _just_ his mate, also his mate. 

“Mmm?” sounded from his left, where the man was typing rapidly on his laptop.

“When you gave the samples - the sperm samples - what were you thinking about?” A pretty straightforward question.

The clicking of keys stopped. Eyebrows were raised over those light eyes as John watched through peripheral vision. “What was I thinking about?” Sherlock sounded surprised.

“Yah.” John still had the book up in front of his face as he asked, “When you wanked into the cup?”

The brows came down into a “Sherlock is thoughtful” pose. “Nervous about tomorrow?”

The book came down. “A bit,” John admitted.

“You should not have the same difficulties as I did. You enjoy your sexuality, as I did not back then, and should have no difficulty masturbating, even if it is into a cup.” Sherlock was still watching him.

“Probably not.” John was the thoughtful one now. He went on, “I just can’t believe that we’re finally doing it. Having another kid. Intentionally this time.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock answered.

“Do you think,” John continued, “that he or she will be very different from Siger? Do you think Siger will be excited to have a baby brother or sister?”

The tall, slender man leant sideways, one hand under his head disappearing into the dark curls. Even as skinny as he was, the man took up most of the bed. “Is this,” he asked, “where I should lovingly reassure you that all will be well? Because I am not particularly good at that.”

That got a laugh. As did the next bit.

“Siger might be more reassuring,” Sherlock offered.

“Yeah, probably,” John said. “If a little less coherent.”

“He’s done remarkably well with the few words he’s managed. And the signing. I expect, based on the reading I’ve been doing about verbal development, that he’ll be chattering away before you know it. With understandable words, I mean.” This clarification referred to Sherlock and John’s tendency to translate for their son.

“He’s certainly good at identifying data,” was the dry reply.

Sherlock’s smile was pleased. “Exactly!” he said with contentment.

It was John’s turn to say, “Hmm.”

“Go to sleep, John,” Sherlock rolled over to place his laptop on the bedside table. “In the morning you can masturbate into the cup, and then tomorrow night we can end this irritating enforced celibacy.”

‘You think so, do you?” John said as he placed the book on his bedside table.

“I’m counting on it,” answered his partner.

And just as he fell asleep in the dream, John woke up. Sherlock, pajama-clad, was awake beside him in bed, typing on John’s laptop

Sherlock stopped as John hitched himself up to sit with his back against the pillows. “Not a nightmare, but a dream,” the detective commented, looking at the man in his bed. John’s hair was standing up, sleep-tossed, and Sherlock Holmes took a moment to enjoy looking at his partner. 

“Yeah,” John yawned. “I dreamed about back when I donated sperm. Must have been Mary’s Christmas card, and the email. It was eerily accurate, and not pink elephants wandering about. No explosions or weird dream things. Are we taking Siger to see Jeanette tomorrow?”

“Mmm,” Sherlock agreed. “Today, though. Go back to sleep.”

John thought about getting a cup of tea first. In the end he curled up against his bedmate, and slid back into similar dreams.

…

 

Jeanette was as pleasant to know as she had been when they’d met her at the Initiative. Most of the arrangements had been made through lawyers to ensure that every jot and tittle was legal. John and Sherlock and Siger had taken Jeanette out to dinner several times to discuss the surrogacy. Jeanette could not, of course, live at 221B. There was no space.

And Jeanette pointed out how foolish it would be to expect the same circumstances and rules that she’d had to follow at the Initiative. “I’ll stay at my apartment. We can set up visiting times. I’m sure that Siger would like to watch the baby grow. It is his baby, after all, his little brother or sister.”

It was agreed that Jeanette would receive a salary, which pleased her. “Not that I won’t earn it, you understand. Carrying a baby is difficult work!”

Sherlock’s stipulations had been regarding language; he wanted Jeanette to speak French as often as possible as well. “Perhaps we could work on some duets. It would be good for Siger to see two people working together on a piece of music.”

John’s worries were entirely to do with the health of Jeanette and the coming baby. It was odd and different expecting the baby this way, instead of the muddled, shoved-into-the-middle way they’d ended up with Siger.

The dream jumped forward in time. They were at the doctor’s appointment with Jeanette. As the tall woman with her cap of short dark hair had told the obstetrician, “They’ve already seen me give birth once. I’m not going to be shy now.”

They were, all three of them surely, holding their breath as the doctor gave them the results of the blood test. “Congratulations. You’re pregnant. The implantation was a success.”

There had been hugging and exuberant kisses from John to everybody but the obstetrician. “I’m going to be a father!” he’d said to Sherlock with an enormous grin. “And Siger’s going to have a sibling!”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock’s smile was fond, even at the inane statement. 

John Watson woke up again. Sherlock was frowning down at him this time. “More dreaming?”

‘Yeah. Not time to get up, I take it?” John asked with sleepy humor.

Folding up the laptop, Sherlock set it on the bedside table. Turning off the light, he wrapped himself around his partner. “Go back to sleep, John.”

If John Watson had more dreams that night, which medically he knew he had, he did not remember any of them. Nor did he wake up until the weak December sun shone in through the curtains the next morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The joyous news [hear, o my brothers]" ("Wesołą nowinę")
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kquy8FAwmyk


	4. Bring A Torch, Jeanette Isabella (Un Flambeau, Jeanette Isabella)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeanette! The surrogate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta reader, Lunamoth116!

Jeanette’s flat was small and cozy, in spite of the modern furniture. Siger loved to run about the rooms which were relatively uncluttered, though John flinched whenever the toddler came close to a sharp corner or chromed edge. 

“Flute!” Siger shouted in excitement when the woman opened the door for them. 

There were no stairs leading to her flat. “Thank God,” Jeanette had told them when she’d started putting on baby weight. “If I lived on the top floor I’d have gone mad by now!”

“Hello, Siger,” she greeted him with a smile.

When he put his hands in the air - “Up!” he demanded - all three adults opened their mouths to respond. The men were silenced by a look from the tall, heavily pregnant woman. “Not right now, Siger. After the babies are born. But you can sit on the couch with me while I play. Would that be alright?”

Siger considered deeply before agreeing cheerfully. He pulled at the pack on John’s back. They were all aware of what he wanted. “Siger -” Sherlock’s voice was reproachful, but gentle “- use your words.”

“Vi’in, pease.”

Sherlock unpacked Siger’s plushy violin, and one of the rubber bee toys that he generally used as a bow. “I don’t understand how he can pronounce the ‘l’ in flute, but not the ones in violin and please.” That was said reproachfully as well.

“Not a linguist, Sherlock,” John said pointedly.

“Well.” The tall and exasperating detective turned to Jeanette. “How are Belladonna and Purpurea today?”

John growled. It was completely believable that his Holmes was deliberately instigating a quarrel over names for the babies. Sherlock turned, his expression innocent and asked reasonably, “What? Have we changed the names again?”

“We are not naming the girls after poisons.” Full stop. It was John’s Captain Watson voice.

Siger, sitting next to Jeanette and playing his violin for her enjoyment, gave the surrogate an unnecessary explanation, as this discussion had been going on for months. “Babies.”

Jeanette smiled and said, “I know, Siger.” She was, however, keeping strictly out of the discussion. As she had told John Watson months ago, she was not being paid for that. What she did say after that was, “Do you want to feel the babies move?”

Siger was agreeable, and she held his small hand over the spot on her belly where one of the twins was giving a series of kicks. Siger giggled, then spoke a long gabble that none of them understood. “Siger, I did not understand you. Would you please say it again, and slowly?” John said as he knelt down beside the couch.

Siger’s repeat was also garbled. In frustration he gave them all a raspberry and resorted to signing, “Babies. Mine.” Then he said, “Mine babies.”

His _père_ groaned. “He sounds like a German now. But at least there’s no ‘s’ on the end of ‘mine’.”

Siger blew a raspberry and signed, “Babies listen.” Then he waved his violin at his father.

Sherlock blew a gentle raspberry back, and opening his violin case he selected his bow, tightened it, and began rosining. Siger matched his movements with the toy bee before using it on the plush violin.

Jeanette had put her flute together, and was playing scales while waiting. Once Sherlock began “Bring a Torch, Jeanette Isabella”, she laughed and began to play along with him.

John sat back in the modern chair that should have been uncomfortable, yet was not. The music was a joy, but an even greater one was watching the duet, mimicked by the tiny violinist on the couch next to Jeanette.

The music session included a wide variety of carols; it was the Christmas season, after all. John sang along to those he knew, and after a while Siger joined him in the modern chair, clambering down from the couch by Jeanette and hauling his violin and bee up onto his daddy’s lap without help. Leaning back and feeling the vibration of his father’s body as he watched his _père_ and Jeanette play, the little boy eventually fell asleep, comfortable in his father’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Renee Fleming!
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x7r8o477iT4


	5. Give Me No Splendour, Gold, or Pomp ("En etsi valtaa, loistoa")

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas shopping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Lunamoth116 for beta reading!

Sherlock Holmes decided that it was a day to recreate an exercise from last year, when he and Siger had gone into a variety of shops in disguises and gotten some interesting discounts. He wore clothing that could be taken many different ways, depending on physical attitude. Dressing Siger in similar clothing, he packed the diaper bag, got out the pram and headed off downtown to become a multitude of different personas. 

He discovered the flaws in his plan at the first small store, where - speaking in a northern accent, and after he had introduced the baby as his son - Siger proceeded to speak entirely in French for the entire time they were in the shop. A toddler is not necessarily convincing in fooling anyone.

Siger, for his part, was pleased to be on an outing with his _père_. His pleasure was evident in his refusal to play any “games” or to remain silent. The toddler, red curls flying about his head, joyously commented on everything. After a while of attempting to adapt to his son’s behaviour and make it part of his disguise (the lonely French father, in town with his parents and son for the holidays worked well with the French shopkeeper at the start, but failed when Siger began to speak in _Nam Viet_ , which Sherlock didn’t speak at all - and Siger looked in no way Vietnamese), Sherlock gave it up for a bad job, and decided to just find something that would suit John for a Christmas present.

Sherlock was uncertain whether or not Siger understood that they were shopping for John. He was not an acquisitive child - after all, he had more than enough to keep himself occupied - but the wonder of the holiday shops encouraged his son to want everything he saw. When had “mines!” become such a feature of Siger’s vocabulary? And how were they going to get rid of that dreadful “s” at the end of the word?

They came upon a men’s shop that looked familiar. It purveyed the perfect combination of “not too expensive” and “attractive to Sherlock’s sense of style” that was essential in a jumper for John. A blonde shopgirl looked up at the bell when Sherlock opened the door and held it for the toddler, for Siger insisted on walking into the shops instead of riding in the pram. Her polite smile of welcome bloomed as she looked from the tall, dark-haired detective to the small red-haired toddler at his side.

“Oh! Hello!” She smiled at Siger. “You’ve gotten big, haven’t you, little man? Here to get a sweater for your dad?”

Sherlock blinked at her. Siger shouted “Hello!” and ran to the counter. “Up!” and “ _me lever!_ ” to his _père_. Upon being lifted to Sherlock’s bony hip, the toddler reached for the long fall of golden hair.

The shopgirl grinned as she shook her head to direct the hair behind a cashmere jumper-clad shoulder. At that moment Sherlock remembered cataloging that shake of a head to control long hair. They’d been here last year, hadn’t they?

“You remember us from last year?” he asked, just to be clear.

Nodding her head, and holding out a small knit snowflake to Siger - advertising for the shop - she added, “And Dr. Watson came in later with your son as well. Are you looking for another sweater? He bought socks, so I wasn’t sure you were going for jumpers this time.”

Ah. Discovered. Then no need to remember what persona he had used last year with her. “You have a very good memory,” Sherlock commented.

“Well, it’s not every day one gets to meet Dr. Watson! And find out that Sherlock Holmes had been in the shop,” she said cheerfully. “I had him autograph something for my professor as proof that I met you!”

“Your professor? You’re not a forensics, criminal justice, or law student. Marketing?” he asked, then added, “Why would you need an autograph for a marketing professor? Unless he’s a fan of John’s blog. But I can’t think that would require proof.”

“Oh, he used your website and Dr. Watson’s blog in our marketing class as examples.” A slight blush appeared and she attempted to change the subject. “We have some lovely jumpers in; not the holiday type, but not the same colour as that oatmeal aran I sold you last Christmas.”

Sherlock was quickly pattering through his mind palace looking for that conversation with his partner. John, in his head, said laughingly, “They were using your website and my blog as examples of what not to do to advertise services.”

Blinking as he came back to the shop, the consulting detective discovered Siger having quite a nice little chat with the shopgirl. “Ah, yes. Examples of poor marketing.”

If anything, the blush got stronger. “Yes, sorry.”

Leaning forward, his eyes focused on hers intensely in a manner he had found useful before, Siger’s father smiled charmingly and inquired in a deep, smooth voice if she was able to offer him a discount on the royal blue sweater in the window. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the toddler leaning around in those long arms to try to peer into his _père’s_ face to see what the shopgirl was staring at.

The golden-haired marketing student began to laugh. That startled the child at first, but then he began to chortle. Sherlock gave a sigh, which was as close as he got to a genuine laugh for anyone other than Siger or John.

“This,” he told John later, “is why shopping should be done online. Unless one is on a case.”

John, dressed in an oatmeal-coloured aran jumper that he knew Sherlock particularly liked, watched as Siger presented a small white-and-blue knit snowflake with great solemnity to Mrs. Hudson. She cooed over the gift delightedly. “I remember that shop. What did you get with the smaller discount than you were expecting?” he asked.

A flicker of startled panic, then Sherlock said in a bland tone, “Socks, John. I was in need of another pair of blacks to balance my index.”

John gave an overly serious nod of understanding, and Sherlock breathed a silent sigh of relief, thinking of the royal blue sweater safely tucked on the top shelf of Mrs. Hudson’s linen closet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A pretty version of En etsi valtaa, loistoa
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ggpew-i5hSs


	6. Do You Hear What I Hear?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night at the pub with John and Greg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Lunamoth116 for beta-ing!

“Siger has learned a new word,” growled Dr. John Watson before he went to order his own pint of lager. 

Greg Lestrade took a drink and tried to imagine what word it could be. Not a curse because Siger would probably have picked that up from John. Instead of being annoyed, John would be mortified. Dr. John Watson had moved mountains to clean up his language since the advent of Siger into their lives.

Greg watched the greying doctor wade through the crowd to the bar. The pub was noisy tonight. Piped-in Christmas pop added to the distraction. “Sleighbells ring. Are ya list’nin’?”

Greg Lestrade laughed quietly. Toddlers listened all the time. Siger doubly so. Siger’s designation for the detective inspector was “Unko Estra”. Greg had no idea what the sign Siger used for him meant. It had made Mycroft laugh, which was good. Curious as he was, the detective inspector couldn’t be bothered with digging to find the meaning. There were colleagues who understood British sign. He was not so sure about French sign.

John came back to the spindly table with three pints. “Those all for you?” he was asked mildly.

“Git,” responded the learned Dr. Watson, and he pushed one over the tabletop toward Greg. “What were you smiling about?”

“Just thinking of Mycroft’s face when Siger signs my name.” He ignored John’s sour grimace at the mention of Mycroft’s name - or perhaps it was for the reminder that Greg was seeing Mycroft. “I still don’t know what the sign means,” Greg confided.

John raised blond eyebrows over his pint. “I assumed Mycroft had told you. It’s French sign language, and one of the few words I know. It’s -” Here, John flashed his fingers in front of his mouth and Greg nodded. John laughed and said, “That means ‘copper’.”

“Copper?” the silver-haired man said consideringly. “Copper, as in policeman? I wouldn’t think there was a word for that.”

“Oh, there is,” John said, “but that’s not it. It’s the element copper. What pence used to be made of.”

Greg Lestrade knew better than to be drinking when one of his odd circle of Holmeses explained anything. Putting his mug down, he started to laugh and continued until he had his head down on the table, his stomach hurting.

John had worked his way through both of his pints by the time that his companion reached the sighing stage of his laughing fit. “Done yet?” John asked, which set his friend off again, though quieter this time.

“Alright,” Greg Lestrade said weakly as he sat up and leaned back in his spindle-backed chair. “So. What was the word that Siger learned today?”

John growled again, an actual growl. “Bored.”

“Oh no!” Greg hadn’t thought he had more laughter in him. He had been wrong, though the laughter was much weaker now. 

A pint of half and half was shoved in front of him. “You can stop anytime,” John said with a good deal more humor than he’d had upon arrival.

“H-h-how? I thought that last case kept his attention pretty well. It was a six, after all.” Greg Lestrade took advantage of the half and half to draw a deep drink.

Giving a snort, John Watson began his tale. “That case was solved. We’ve gone two days since with no experiments. The last one that Sherlock tried with Siger - he took Siger out and tried to practice disguises. It did not work. Next thing I know he’s stepping all over the furniture shouting ‘Bored, John!’ I suppose I should be grateful he was not destroying the flat.”

Greg Lestrade stared at his friend. “He stepped all over the furniture - what, like the floor is lava?”

John laughed at that. “You did that too? I guess everybody has. Yeah, he was stepping from the couch to the end table to the desk to the chair shouting ‘bored’ over and over. I guess I should be relieved. It’s been almost two years since I’ve heard the word.”

“And Siger?” Greg asked.

“Siger thought it was a splendid thing to be doing. He can’t step from couch to table yet, but he’s marching around the flat shouting ‘bored’. But in falsetto. I have to figure out what to do because as adorable as it is now, we have to nip this in the bud or I’m going to have to kill him later.” John looked over at a member of the Met’s finest and said, “Not literally.”

“You’ll think of something.” Greg was uncertain how to deal with the situation himself, but he was sure that John would think of a common-sense way to tackle the issue. And Sherlock would explore odd and interesting ways of getting out of trouble.”

“Hopefully before Sherlock does?” John suggested.

Greg was thoughtful. “He hasn’t done so bad with this, has he?”

“No,” John responded truthfully. “He’s a good father. I’m not so sure of myself. Hard to be patient sometimes.”

“Doubts, huh? Well, not surprising. Siger is a toddler, and you’re going to have two more in a short while.” Greg gave him a grin. “You just have to do what seems right at the time. You guys set up a good framework. Just go with that.”

“With Siger,” John sighed, “I didn’t have time to think about it ahead. Or not much.”

Greg asked solicitously, “Should I get you a ‘handling toddlers’ book for the holiday?”

That got a disgusted snort. “Got them all. I’m married to a Holmes.” John realized what he had said and buried his head in his arms on the table. “Oh, God help me.”

“I’m laughed out, John. But I’ll keep this to remember and laugh at you later.” Greg snapped a picture with his mobile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You knew it would happen eventually.
> 
> Here is one of the Bing Crosby Christmas specials with Do You Hear What I Hear?
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XuE_DXrt2Js


	7. Oh Come, Oh Come, Emmanuel.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The discussion about names.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Lunamoth116 for beta-reading!

“Bianca. Rose.” Two in a long line of suggestions.

“Color names are tedious, John. If not Purpurea, what is wrong with Belladonna?” Sherlock Holmes, flat on his back on the couch - one arm beating out a measure on the cushioning of the back, the other draped down to the wooden floor - was watching Siger play on the floor with his tiny football. The man saw no reason why girls would not play football as well. That would be interesting, the three of them racing about the flat after the ball.

John Watson snapped his newspaper to show his displeasure, then folded it and tried to look his partner in the eye. “Because I don’t want to think of Belladonna Took every time I talk to our daughter.”

Sherlock retrieved the information from his Mind Palace. Tolkien was a part of John, and therefore not to be deleted again. “Agreed. Though the actual name means ‘beautiful lady’.”

“What about Violet and Margaret?”

If any human being could flounce while lying on a sofa, it was Sherlock Holmes. “Naming our children after our mothers, John?” The consulting detective was engaged in watching the boy, and not John Watson, and so he missed the change in expression on his partner’s face. “It would be better for our daughters and the memory of our mothers not to replace those names with new faces.” There was silence, except for Siger, who was now speaking to his rubber bees. “Possibly using them as middle names would be appropriate for honoring their memories.” Shifting his attention to the now silent man in his comfortable chair, Sherlock stopped at the sight of his partner’s face. “John?” Sherlock replayed his words. He could see nothing offensive in them, and looked toward those unhappy eyes for clarifications.

Dr. John Watson looked away. “Time for tea, I suppose.” Even Sherlock could not miss the solidly unemotional tone of his voice. John hoisted himself out of the chair and disappeared into the kitchen.

Sherlock considered picking Siger up and using him to manipulate John into a more pleasant mood. That would not serve in this discussion, however. Rising with a little less than his usual grace, the tall, slender man stepped over the baby gate that led to the kitchen and put long-fingered hands on John Watson’s shoulders. Touch tended to be an effective tool in conversing with John.

“Yeah?” John didn’t look back at the touch. That was not good. Not good at all.

“John.” That deep voice was not as calm as Sherlock felt it should be. “Stop. Talk to me.” Sherlock almost told John to “use his words”, but was uncertain that John would respond to humour. There had been times when the younger Holmes had attempted it and the attempt had not gone well.

“I can see your point, Sherlock. No need to get fussed about it.” That voice was steady and unemotional.

“While I can see that you are distressed about my comments, John,” Sherlock said quietly, “I do not understand why my suggestion that we use our mothers’ names as middle names is distasteful.”

The filled kettle banged down onto the hob. John turned, and now Sherlock, removing his hands quickly, could read startled surprise. “Middle names?” John asked.

“Yes. Instead of for their Christian names. I feel that first names that are unique would be better than sharing them with someone else in the family register. I had thought, being named after your grandfather, and with a fairly common name, that you would agree.” Sherlock licked his lips nervously. He was not good at dealing with issues of sentiment.

“Oh.” John rubbed his forehead with one hand. “I missed that bit. Sorry.”

“You were not listening?” That was a shock.

“It’s just…” John said in that age-old way of shifting blame. He continued, “I’ve been suggesting names for the past nine months. You always counter with names that are linked to crimes, or are bad puns based on whatever the current case happens to be, or would get any child tormented at school - Guya and Fawkes, Sherlock. Those just won’t work. I don’t think I’ve heard you initiate a discussion on naming the babies. They’re due in two weeks, and while I know they give you time after the birth to come up with a name, I’d like for the names to be there when the girls arrive.”

That head of dark curls bobbed quickly in understanding, or agreement; John was not sure which. Reaching back to turn on the kettle, the blond doctor asked carefully, “How do you feel about seasonal names?”

“What? Like Poinsettia? Or Emmanuelle, Candycane, or Noelle?” Hooking a kitchen chair with his foot, he turned it to straddle, while still watching John. “I don’t care for those. Do you?”

“I like Emmanuelle, but it reminds me of a porn series. So no. None of the others either,” John said as he set up the mugs for tea. A thought struck him. “Sherlock.” John had to turn to face his crazy flatmate. “You haven’t suggested any names except in response to my suggestions. Have you thought about what you’d like to name the babies? Are there any female names that you like?”

Looking at his short, mad-as-a-hatter flatmate, the self-described genius took in the smile being directed his way, opened his mouth, then closed it on “Irene”, which would be a bit not good. “I had thought Rosalind and Miranda,” he said finally.

“Those are pretty,” John said thoughtfully. “Where do they come from? What is their reference?”

“Shakespeare, John.” Then that smooth voice quoted, “‘Sweetest nut hath hardest rind. So indeed hath Rosalind.’”

John’s face lit up. “Miranda. That’s from _The Tempest_ , isn’t it?” he asked.

Sherlock laid his chin on the back of the chair, and answered, “Yes. The magician Prospero’s daughter.”

“So, Rosalind Violet and Miranda Margaret?”

“I think I would prefer Rosalind Margaret and Miranda Violet instead.” That comment came with a tiny smile.

“Right.” John Watson agreed to it with a firm nod of the head before turning to pour the boiling water onto the tea to steep.

“The question we should be asking, John, is -” and now Sherlock’s voice held a lilt of humour to it, as it continued - “what will Siger make of those names?”

“Well, we’ll just have to ask him, won’t we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Come, O Come Emmanuel by the Pentatonix.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FsU0x27e3Dw


	8. Fantasia on Christmas Carols

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg has an idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to beta-reader Lunamoth116!

Greg Lestrade was walking. He did that from time to time, even when his car was not at the garage, just looking at the city as he wandered. Holiday decorations popped up in unexpected places, and carols followed him down the street. A display caught his eye: a row of toys that looked like flutes made of old-fashioned piping, but molded plastic instead of copper. They were one and all incredibly noisy toys of the type that an uncle might purchase to provide merriment over parental dismay. Greg knew that his sister’s grandchildren would get a kick out of them, and Dolores would think it hysterical if he bought a set for the twins.

The toys were a bit old for them yet. Still, they could have fun playing with their cousins and the toys at Christmas.

The issue was actually with purchasing one for Siger. Greg could imagine the appalled look on Sherlock Holmes’s face, which morphed into an expression of horror on the visage of Mycroft Holmes. No, it wasn’t worth offending Mycroft for a moment of hilarity. A shame.

Still, Greg found himself drawn into the shop. It wouldn’t hurt to do a little exploring. After all, Christmas was coming and he had to find the perfect gift for John Watson’s son. After all, the Arsenal shirt had been a huge hit, if Greg did say so himself. What had John said about drums?

Oh, John had said any drums would be going to Mycroft’s house. That wouldn’t do. And then there was a gift for Mycroft. Greg had been looking for something perfect for months. Last year he had gotten his lover a first-edition copy of Jules Verne’s _Maître du monde_. They had read it together, taking it in turns to read out loud to each other. That, as far as Greg was concerned, was part of the gift.

This year the detective inspector had hit upon the idea of purchasing a manuscript of one of the great composers for piano. Sadly, he did not have 15,000 pounds to throw into an auction for something of the quality that Mycroft deserved, let alone would value. Like that autographed manuscript of Dvořák’s _Dumka_. Greg did not know what a “Dumka” was, but it was a working manuscript for piano, and he thought that Mycroft would have appreciated it.

Next he had thought of asking Sherlock - the only musical composer he knew, and one whom Mycroft respected as well - to write a piece for his brother. Upon reflection, he’d decided that anything Sherlock wrote would have to be a gift from Sherlock to Mycroft. Greg had passed the idea on to John at a pub night months ago. If that little seed came to fruition, it could happen any time in the next one hundred years.

This store had tiny toy pianos. Tapping on a key, even Greg Lestrade could hear that it wasn’t a patch on Mycroft’s grand piano in the music room. Too bad. It would be interesting to see tiny Siger playing and copying Mycroft, the way that Greg had seen him copy Sherlock with that little plush violin. Come to think of it, Greg had never seen Siger in the music room at Mycroft’s place.

That thought sparked an idea that, while not a Christmas present, would at least be nice for his posh lover. Texting his - well, Greg was never comfortable calling the man his boyfriend, and he wasn’t exactly a partner either - intimate? Romantic companion? Datemate? Greg sent off a text asking if Mycroft would be interested in babysitting with him tonight. Upon receiving an affirmative, he texted John, and asked for the loan of Siger.

Dinner was simple. Greg liked cooking in Mycroft’s kitchen where everything was neat and orderly. No junk drawers for Mycroft Holmes. Or possibly for Mycroft’s housekeeper, Anna. Greg mixed cream into the red sauce, drained the al dente farfalle, and combined a bit for Siger’s high chair tray. Dinner was a companionable meal, at the kitchen table, for Greg did not want to press his luck with a toddler in the formal dining room. Mycroft visibly relaxed over a glass of wine and a precisely measured portion of the pasta.

Siger loved the shape of the pasta, examining it thoroughly, and getting sauce all over his bib, clothes, the tray, and the floor beneath the high chair. He gabbled on at length to Greg about it, before telling the detective inspector, “Mines” and eating up all he was given. 

“Farfalle.” Mycroft’s pronunciation sounded very Italian to Greg. Siger copied the intonation, and waved a piece of pasta in his sauce clad fist.

“Sherlock is concerned at Siger’s hit or miss approach to the ‘el’ sound in words. He seems to have farfalle correct,” commented the British government.

Siger grinned and stuffed that last bit of pasta into his mouth. They gave him time to run fingers through the sauce on the plastic tray while both men scraped and rinsed and filled the dishwasher. Mycroft, brave man that he was, managed to get the toddler cleaned up and out of the high chair without a spot of pink or red on his starched shirt. Siger received a change of nappy and clothing in the powder room in the hall.

Upon their return, Greg was ready. “I thought we could have a bit of music, if you don’t mind. In the music room?” Greg offered as he dried his hands.

The raised eyebrow confirmed that the silver-haired detective was not fooling anyone. “What type of music?” Mycroft asked - possibly for the sake of politeness.

“You haven’t played piano in a while. How about that? I think Siger would like that, wouldn’t you, Siger?” Greg took the toddler from Mycroft, set him down on his own feet and offered his hand. Siger, who was good at picking up cues, took Greg’s hand and looked up to Mycroft to see where they were going now.

Bright eyes wide at the sight of the pocket doors to the music room being opened, Siger looked round before tugging his hand out of Greg’s so that he could explore this new place. The grand piano must have seemed a large piece of furniture until Mycroft, seated on the dark wooden bench, revealed the keyboard and began to limber up his fingers with scales. Then nothing would do but that Siger must see what “Unko Mycoft” was up to. Pressing the keys, Siger was like a little old man - fussy and precise, not pounding on them as Greg had expected him to do.

Greg had brought Siger’s bees with them, and a variety of toys for the toddler to play with on the floor while Mycroft played Chopin, and Beethoven, before turning to Christmas hymns. Siger and his bees listened, then played a bit, then listened again.

Greg was satisfied with his evening plans. When John and Sherlock arrived to pick their son up, Siger was sound asleep on the loveseat in the parlor. “Was he good?” That question that all parents ask was John’s aside to Greg as Sherlock organized the retrieval of their boy.

“As good as gold. What were you two up to?” Greg responded.

“Symphony. We don’t get to go often to things that aren’t for work. Thanks for the night out,” said John with a smile.

“Siger is welcome at any time,” said Mycroft. He further commented, “Brother mine, we introduced Siger to the piano this evening. He has a good ear, but seemed to prefer Vaughan Williams hymns to Beethoven.”

“John’s influence,” replied his younger brother. “At times John sings hymns to Siger. In the bath. On walks. Just about anywhere.”

“Excellent. Mummy would have encouraged that.” Mycroft escorted the two men and their boy to the door. Goodnights were said.

After the solid wooden door was closed behind them, Mycroft smiled at his lover. “Was the evening to your liking?”

“Yeah,” Greg said. “I think it went well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quoting from Wikipedia:  
> "Master of the World (French: Maître du monde), published in 1904, is one of the last novels by French pioneer science fiction writer, Jules Verne. It is a sequel to Robur the Conqueror. At the time Verne wrote the novel, his health was failing. Master of the World is a "black novel," filled with foreboding and fear of the rise of tyrants such as the novel's villain, Robur, and totalitarianism."
> 
> Fantasia on Christmas Carols by R. Vaughan Williams. He was an atheist at one point, then became a "cheerful agnostic", but he wrote some of the most beautiful hymns.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_FRtBVYYMW4
> 
> and
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JveXl0bLM1I


	9. Auld Lang Syne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft comes to Baker Street for tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Lunamoth116!

Mycroft Holmes invited his brother to meet for a cup of coffee. His brother’s response was to look astonished and ask if he would need to make plans for the end of the world. Mycroft countered with an offer to come to Baker Street for tea. Sherlock became silent.

“Come at four,” he said finally, before ringing off.

Mycroft stepped down from his black car just as John Watson arrived from the tube station. “Hallo,” John said in surprise. “Do you have a case for Sherlock?”

Taking some pleasure in startling his brother’s partner, Mycroft answered, “I have been invited for tea.”

John laughed, then commented, “Well, that means no beans on toast today, doesn’t it?”

“Possibly. It depends on my brother’s sense of hospitality.” Mycroft indicated that John should precede him into the house.

Siger was waiting at the top of the steps. “Daddy! Unko Mycoft!” he shrieked in excitement. 

“How is my boy?” asked John as he bounded up the steps, and as Mycroft greeted the toddler: “Siger.”

“Back up then, Siger,” John said while unlatching the baby gate. “Sherlock?” he called, scooping up his son.

They discovered the detective lying on his back, fingers templed before his lips. The kettle was steaming; china cups were laid out with a filled creamer, sugar bowl and a server of small sandwiches, and an open pasteboard box revealed éclairs, one for each of them. Handing Siger off to Mycroft, John set about preparing the teapot and bringing the tray out to the living area. “Siger,” he called, “time to get into your high chair.”

Siger’s introduction to éclairs came after a chicken salad sandwich. It was thrilling and messy. Mycroft sighed at the sight of the pastries, but graciously accepted the cup of plain tea to make up for the calories. There was not much small talk while they ate. Sherlock disdained it, Mycroft was disinterested - possibly because he already knew what was going on in their lives - and John was transitioning from his day at work. Siger, however, talked a mile a minute whenever he did not have a mouthful of éclair. 

When all had been consumed, Mycroft asked John, “Would you please take Siger out? I have something to discuss with Sherlock.” He gestured to a plain, old-fashioned suitcase that John did not remember seeing on Mycroft’s person when they’d entered. “It is not classified,” the elder Holmes went on to say, “but I feel that Siger’s presence would alter the discussion.”

“Alright, sweet, should we see if Bert is back from class yet?” John did a general wipe down of Siger’s face and hands, then lifted the toddler out and onto his feet. “Let’s go down and check, shall we?”

Once John and Siger were on the staircase making their way slowly down, Mycroft moved the tea tray to the side of the wooden coffee table, and placed the suitcase on the table, unlatching it. When he opened the lid, there displayed was a very small violin case, darkness - black and solid. “Mycroft,” Sherlock began in an annoyed tone. His brother held an elegant hand up to forestall him.

Now, opening the case to reveal a small violin, he said, “This was your violin when you started taking lessons at three years of age. It is in excellent shape. Mummy put it aside when you moved up to a larger size. She did not keep all of your old violins, but this one she did save. It came to me upon her death when I was executor of her estate, and I have kept it. I believe she hoped it would go to any grandchildren we provided.”

Sherlock had appeared (to his brother, at least) startled. Reaching for the instrument, he lifted it carefully and examined the body, pulling at the lax strings with a calloused finger. Replacing the violin into its cavity in the case he took out the bow and checked that over. “You’ve had the bow restrung?”

“Yes. New strings on the violin as well. It has been restored to its original glory by your luthier. It is not my intention to interfere in your decisions on raising Siger. But I did think you might like to have this.” Mycroft tilted his head, waiting for a response.

“So. What’s up?” asked John from the doorway, minus Siger.

“Mycroft has brought my old violin, John. We had planned on Siger starting at three years, as I did. He may start on this one if he chooses.” Sherlock did not sound overly joyful, but to his partner and his older brother there were all the signs of happiness.

“Ta, Mycroft. That will come in handy,” commented John as he swept the tea tray off the coffee table and out to the kitchen for washing up.

Sherlock packed the instrument and bow away in its small case. Standing, he placed the case up on the shelf next to his more current violin. “I do appreciate your presenting this when Siger was out of the room. He may notice the smaller case. I am teaching him to be observant. But I think it best to wait. When it is time for him to begin lessons, we will retrieve it and he may open it.”

Turning back to his brother he added, “Thank you.”

Mycroft gave a tiny smile. “It will be my pleasure to hear him play, when he is ready for an audience. And now it is time for me to return to work. Good day, brother mine.”

A nod from the younger Holmes, and Mycroft swept elegantly - even with the baby gate - out and down the stairs to his car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Auld Lang Syne - sung in It's A Wonderful Life.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z3sXVxqDbFk


	10. Angels from the Realms of Glory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Siger's favorite thing about Miss Alice Brown's Christmas choral concert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Lunamoth116 for kindly beta-reading all of these pretty much at the last minute. I greatly appreciate it!

Miss Alice Brown’s choral concert for this year was to be a “family friendly” event in an older church at about teatime. Biscuits, cakes, and punch were put up in the Fellowship Hall for afterward. Sherlock and Siger passed the long tables set with vivid red and green plastic “cloths”, a cut-glass punch bowl with a sherbet ring floating on a sea of bright red, and trays of cookies and cake slices covered with cling wrap. Their footsteps echoed on the lino as they walked across the darkened hall, in counterpoint to Siger’s treble voice commenting to his _père_. Faintly, the chatter of the concert intermission went on in the sanctuary above them.

Siger needed a change; Sherlock needed the loo. The gents’ upstairs had a line of men that Sherlock wished to avoid. They looked “chatty”, and there was no need for conversation in any line, so far as Siger’s _père_ was concerned. Chatting was only useful when a case was on. John was equally adamant that strangers did not need to be savaged - as he put it - with comments on their hygiene, personal behavior, or peccadillos. At least not in the line for the loo.

The church had school rooms. Nursery school as well as Sunday School were advertised on the sign outside. There must be a number of water closets attached to the classrooms. Small children required frequent toileting, as the detective was learning. Sherlock Holmes explained all of this to his son, who appeared to be the man’s self in miniature save for their hair colour. Siger, clad like his father in a hunter green shirt and black slacks, responded to these explanations in affirmatives in either French or English and showed his _père_ items that caught his interest.

Discovering the closest unoccupied loo, Sherlock was pleased to find that it was what was commonly described as “family-sized”, with a changing table. He placed the nappy bag on the changer, and put all items out in a neat and orderly fashion, then turned to pick up his son. 

Siger was staring, wide-eyed and completely charmed at the miniature toilet set in the floor next to the adult one. _”Père! Il est un peu toilette!”_ the little boy said in a whisper. Sherlock had to ask him to repeat his words, but in a louder tone.

 _Père_ was disconcerted. _“Siger, voulez-vous utiliser la petite toilette?”_

 _”Oui!”_ Siger was emphatic.

John Watson was sitting up on the solidly uncomfortable and unpadded pews of the church watching over Mrs. Hudson’s wraps and bag, and paging through the order of service while waiting. His mobile sounded a text alert as his landlady returned to her seat. The text read, “Come downstairs to the nursery toilets at once!”

The message did not say ”dangerous”. It did not say Vatican Cameos. John made the assumption that this was a nappy issue, and excused himself to seek out his errant partner and child. He heard them long before he found the correct loo. Siger was singing to himself, or to his father. Sherlock was singing along in his lovely baritone. There is quite a distinctive sound when one speaks in a bathroom or water closet.

John knocked, then opened the door to look into the room. Sherlock was washing his hands and the adult toilet was running water into the cistern. Siger was sitting cheerfully on the small potty, and he waved and said, “Hello, Daddy!” at sight of John. 

“Is my big boy using the toilet?” John asked, ignoring the eye roll on the part of Sherlock.

“Yes!” Siger swung his legs back and forth, his trousers down around his ankles.

They waited for a small amount of time. “All done!” Siger proclaimed and jumped up to reveal his un-nappied bottom, and an absolutely empty toilet bowl. 

“Siger,” Sherlock said, “aren’t you going to use the toilet?”

“I did, _père_. What I do now?” Siger looked up at his father expectantly. “I flish? New nappy?” he asked.

John started to laugh. “Yes, Siger. Flush with that little lever on the cistern. Then we’ll get a new nappy on you and we’ll all wash our hands.”

Sherlock was struggling to structure the variety of sentiments flashing across his face - disappointment, surprise. Finally he settled on a rueful smile.

John, who was diapering his son with the smoothness of long practice, smiled sideways. “Did you expect him to get it at the start, Sherlock? It won’t be that easy.”

‘I had hoped,” Sherlock Holmes admitted. “Siger seemed so interested.”

“He’ll get there. It’s a little early yet. And did we really want to start toilet training him with the babies due next week?” John finished with the disposable diaper and straightened Siger’s clothing. “Alright, big boy,” the daddy said, “now it’s time for us all to wash our hands with soap.”

Siger was proud and excited as he washed at the low sink, singing his alphabet as he rubbed the soap into a foamy lather, then rinsing under the tap that Sherlock had set to an acceptable temperature. His fathers bent down to do the same, then Sherlock packed up the nappy bag while John swung Siger onto his shoulders.

When they reached their seats and Mrs. Hudson, Siger shouted, “I went to the loo! _Grandmère_!”

“Fancy that,” said Mrs. Hudson cheerfully. Then she added, “Sit down here, Siger, and listen, for they’re just about to start again.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, but closed it again at a look from John. Sitting one on either side of the little boy, they listened to the rest of the concert - mainly familiar hymns that Siger much enjoyed, although Sherlock was uncertain whether or not his son was singing the correct lyrics. The biscuits and cakes and punch were thoroughly enjoyed as well. Siger took Mrs. Hudson to see the tiny toilet afterward, so that they could wash their hands from biscuit crumbs and the red stain of sloshed punch.

Riding home in the taxi, Siger fell asleep belted into his car seat. “You know,” John said quietly to Sherlock, “he’s going to want a miniature bathroom of his own now.”

“I know,” grumbled Sherlock. “We will have to see about providing the tools for the job. Possibly as a Christmas present.”

That got John laughing. “It’s probably as good a present as that plastic pedal car we were looking at. At least he’ll get more use out of a potty chair set.”

It was decided, and the next day a box joined John’s royal blue jumper on the shelves of Mrs. Hudson’s linen closet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. These things do happen.
> 
> Also, courtesy of Lunamoth116: http://www.homecomingmagazine.com/article/what-was-that-again-hilarious-misheard-christmas-lyrics/
> 
> Had a very hard time finding the version of this song:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vCoe4-9hITs


	11. Santa Claus is Coming To Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Siger meets père Noël.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Lunamoth116 for beta-reading!

“So. _Père Noël_.” John brought it up at a crime scene, as Siger was not present.

Sherlock was ostentatiously ignoring Sergeant Donovan as he crawled around on the dirty floor of the pub, examining the cracks between the planking with his magnifying glass. The murder had occurred in another room; whatever had caught Sherlock’s attention, it was not related to the case. Sergeant Donovan just as obviously started to speak to Dr. Watson in that overloud tone that invites attention. “Are you taking the kid to see Father Christmas? Is he old enough now for that?”

John was perfectly willing to play along, as he knew Sherlock had already determined the killer from a hastily muttered aside ten minutes ago. “Not quite two. I think it’s time. We didn’t do Father Christmas last year. It got too busy, and we weren’t sure about it at his age then.”

“You haven’t booked tickets yet? Some of the Santa’s Grottos get booked months in advance. All the popular ones do, anyway.” Sally knew from experience. She’d taken her sister’s kids each year as part of her contribution to Christmas Spirit, as her sister called it.

“I had thought we’d take Siger to the one at Winter Wonderland,” John told her. “We passed it all the time last year. Bert took Siger there for walks last December, and we used to meet him there.”

“Sometimes the really little ones cry. Big bearded man in a red suit holding them. A little freaky.” Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan had the grace to look a bit abashed at her own word choice. John had noticed that she was attempting to avoid that particular word in their presence lately. “Frightening. Scary, yeah, for a little kid, ending up on a stranger’s lap for pictures and all.” 

“Well, we’ve never told Siger that Father Christmas brings all the presents. None of that ‘be good or you don’t get anything’ stuff,” John told her. “I don’t think we’ve really told Siger anything about him beyond a mention or two in his presence, or an ‘oh, that’s Father Christmas’ when we see them in the parks.”

“How is he with strangers?” Sally asked curiously.

“Fine. He won’t go off with one, but he’s not afraid of them, generally.” John was aware of Sherlock standing behind him rapidly scrolling through something on his mobile. 

“John,” the consulting frustration said crisply, “we need to be at the Santa’s Grotto in Santa Land, Hyde Park, at 2 p.m. for Siger. Sergeant Donovan, there is a drug trafficking mob working through this pub that is entirely unrelated to the murder. The murderer was the woman’s neighbor - check out noise complaints about the woman’s dog. The drugs are facilitated by one of the bartenders. Best get on that.” 

The Belstaff coat swirled as Sherlock Holmes dragged Dr. John Watson from the crime scene.

When they reached 221B, John discovered Bert getting Siger ready for a trip to Winter Wonderland. “Sherlock texted me. Siger’s eaten, and taken his nap,” Bert told John as he pulled the zip on Siger’s coat. 

Sherlock appeared from the bedroom and hustled them all down the steps and into a cab. John, who had not eaten, bought from the vendors as they walked about. He bought more than he could eat himself, as Sherlock treated all of John’s meals as his rightful due. Siger requested bits more politely. 

For a time, it was much as their visits had been last year. Siger loved being there. He recognized Hyde Park, as they visited it at other times of the year. He did not chew on his toy bees quite so much, but he watched every holiday glittery bit with wide eyes, commenting often to Sherlock, John, and Bert in snatches of three languages on what grabbed his attention.

They waited in line for Father Christmas - it was first come, first served - with Sherlock holding his son and murmuring observations into the tiny ear beneath those red curls. John and Bert discussed plans for Christmas dinner this year. Some of the children did cry, and Siger commented on it to his _père_. Sherlock said, after some thought, that the children had not been adequately prepared by their parents as to what they were about to encounter. He said further that there was nothing to fear, that Siger’s _père_ , his daddy, and Bert were there, and nothing would harm Siger. The youngest Holmes seemed to accept that explanation. 

As they got closer to the head of the line, Siger became more and more excited, signing and speaking too rapidly for John to understand. Sherlock was translating, but his son kept saying, _“Non, père!”_ before repeating himself. Several times he was even able to speak more slowly and let his _père_ catch up. 

While Sherlock consulted his mobile for the French sign for _père Noël_ , one of Father Christmas’s helpers found them, and began to chat with Siger in British sign and English. 

Sherlock gave her the eye, then commented, “Early childhood education major. Not fluent in sign, but knows the words a baby might use. Acceptable.” He did not intrude on Siger’s and her conversation further. He did get a funny look from the “helper”, but she paid more attention to Siger than to the three adults with him. 

John took charge to introduce Father Christmas to his son. Seated on the throne-like chair with Siger on his knee, Father Christmas looked cheerful and relatively genuine. Sherlock muttered to Bert in French that this _père Noël_ was an actor by trade, who lived in Islington.

After an initial appraisal, where Siger poked at the padded belly of the Christmas figure, the toddler could not keep his eyes off of the curling, white beard. Before John, or Father Christmas, could stop him, the little boy had hold of that beard and was pulling firmly upon it. “Ah, excellent,” said Sherlock in approval as John and Father Christmas attempted to remove those tiny fingers from the beard. “Siger is continuing his experiments on the tensile strength of hair.”

The beard was not natural; however, it was attached firmly enough that a child yanking on it would not dislodge the disguise. Sherlock produced a small camera from his Belstaff and proceeded to document Siger’s experiment, and the ensuing visit with Father Christmas.

All in all, Siger was greatly pleased with their visit to the Grotto, and he talked about it all the way home to Baker Street. It was not until after supper that John brought up the camera. “Did you buy that camera for the Father Christmas visit?”

“Yes, John. But you must admit that it will be very useful in documenting the children as they grow. And think of how irritated Mycroft will be when we bring out the pictures of our trip today!” Sherlock explained gleefully.

“Suit yourself,” John said before adding, “It’s your turn to bathe Siger.” Even though he was not doing the bathing, John stood in the doorway to listen to Sherlock explaining to Siger the many names of _père Noël_ while Siger splashed and played in the tub.

That night before bed they read “A Visit From St. Nicholas” to their toddler, whose room was now quite cluttered. The rocking chair was wedged in between the wall with two cribs and Siger’s little bed on the opposing wall. 

After kisses were given, and the light turned out in the nursery, they made their way down to the sitting area - John to update his blog, and Sherlock to revel in the photographs of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had never heard of Santa's Grottos before planning this story. It's an amazing thing that you go to a Santa's Grotto to meet Father Christmas.
> 
> Fred Astaire singing Santa Clause is Coming To Town:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9jQy_ppY2bI


	12. Lo, How A Rose E'er Blooming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But what of Jeanette?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Lunamoth116 for beta-reading!
> 
> I know I don't have Jeanette speaking a lot of French in this, but rest assured, she does.

Jeanette shifted to relieve the weight on her swollen stomach, swollen ankles, and overall swollen body. Carrying twins was vastly different from carrying a single baby. With her ordinarily tall, slim frame, the flautist was certain she would never again be this monstrously large. She had decided over a month ago that this would be her last surrogacy. She was thinking about it again today.

Sherlock was due to visit her any minute. Either he or John were there to see her - sometimes both of them - every day regularly throughout the course of her pregnancy. It was enjoyable when they brought Siger to visit. Someday she hoped to have a little person of her own, possibly more.

Actually, she had decided when carrying the first baby for the Initiative that she would not have any more babies until she was ready to bear her own, whenever that would be. And then she had met Dr. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. It wasn’t just that they were charming men; they were. It was that they were two men who obviously cared for one another. They’d come up with this scheme to become responsible for one of the babies produced by the Initiative, and found their way to more than just parenthood through it.

Of course they were the subject of much gossip, speculation, and wagering among the surrogates. Several women had sworn that the good doctor had looked at them appreciatively, even pregnant as they were, though no one believed he had a pregnancy kink (yes, that was discussed). Unlike some of the actual medical staff.

A number of the surrogates had been charmed by Sherlock Holmes. His easy smile and flirty manner at times had women sighing over him. Dr. Watson likewise had his number of fans. Let’s face it, they were sixty-odd women who were celibate for over ten months. There were going to be a number of fantasies.

Jeanette had been honored that they’d come back after the initial exam to visit with her. She had played the flute for them, and chatted with Dr. Watson while Sherlock was speaking in French against her stomach. Everyone knew that they’d discussed a second surrogacy - secrets were not easy to keep in that community - and Jeanette had felt called to offer her service for it.

She was not in contact with anyone from that period of time, other than John and Sherlock (and, come to think on it, Siger). She was not making the amount of money she’d received from the Initiative. No rent for that period of time, nor household expenses, and all that money going into an account for her. She’d sublet her flat back then, so that was paid for while she was incarcerated. Jeanette was set.

And now? Even with the surprise of twins instead of a singleton, she was free to live her life, work her jobs, and make the surrogacy money on the side. Plus she had the continuing contact with two extraordinary people and their little boy. Part of the thrill of this was getting to know one of the babies from the Initiative, even if it was not the little girl she had carried. Through Holmes and Watson she had also found out that each of those sixty and more babies had found good homes. They were being monitored and assisted. That, she believed, was directly because of Dr. John Watson, who was a good man.

So. Ten more months of being part of their very strange family. And in a few weeks, give or take, she would be finished with this part of the job, and back to being on her own.

Looking around her sharply modern flat, with an absurdly silver tinsel tree decorated with royal blue, blown glass ornaments, Jeanette was happy with her life. But it was soon to become more lonely, if also more independent. It was always a give and take, wasn’t it?

Well, for today she had Sherlock visiting. When it was John’s turn, he would bring spicy dinners from the Afghani or Indian restaurants on the way to her flat. They’d chat and eat together. 

Sherlock usually brought French peasant food. Homey foods that they had both grown up with. Today it was a cassoulet - beans, pork, goose, hearty and probably heartburn-inducing. Jeanette would never say no to it. Somehow Sherlock had found a restaurant that made it perfectly, just as her _Grand-maman_ had.

They spoke of music. Sherlock told her about the symphony concert he and John had attended recently. She imparted stories about the latest rehearsals and the recitals at which her various instrumental groups had performed. He had not brought his violin today, but she heard about the child’s violin that his elder brother had saved and dropped by 221B.

The topic turned to Christmas, and preparing the house with Siger underfoot and involved. Jeanette had decorated her flat, but no other plans were in motion for the holiday. It had been uncertain whether or not she would be able to leave the city to visit her family in France. They had all made plans to travel now, and even if the babies were born now, today, she would still not be joining them.

Then Sherlock was looking at her keenly. “You will be with us for Christmas.” That was a statement, not an invitation, nor a question.

“You think so, do you?” Jeanette laughed. What else could one do when one interacted with Sherlock Holmes?

The man was fiddling with his mobile. It was just something he did, fairly frequently. She could not see that he had sent two text messages, one to John and one to his brother. “Yes. A car will come for you at five p.m. on Christmas Eve. Plan to spend Christmas Day with John, Siger, the babies and me. Mrs. Hudson will be away, and there will be space for you to stay overnight.” That was said with satisfaction. Then the subject changed. “Have you found an alternative fingering for the Briccialdi ‘Carnival’ piece?”

It looked like Jeanette would not be alone for Christmas after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lo, How A Rose E'er Blooming. With Frederic von Stade. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qI7hwHaYK_c


	13. It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, and John, and Siger at dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Lunamoth116 for beta-ing!

John Watson received a text at his job doing locum work at a clinic. “Jeanette will be spending Christmas with us. She will stay in Mrs. Hudson’s flat. Organize it. SH”

This missive was followed by, “Please. SH”

Mycroft Holmes received one as well, as he dined in solitary splendour at the Diogenes Club. “Car required to transport surrogate (post delivery) to Baker Street at 5 pm on 24/12. SH”

When John arrived home from the surgery, he found Sherlock engaged in building towers out of the periodic table blocks with Siger in the sitting room. Receiving a quick hug from his boy before being abandoned back to play, John sat down happily in his chair, shifting the Union Jack pillow. “What was that about, Sherlock? Your text about Jeanette?”

“Flute!” Siger chimed in before beginning construction of fortifications around his daddy’s shoes.

Sherlock looked up from checking his mobile. “I would have thought, John, that you would be pleased.”

“I am not displeased,” John said while untying the laces on his work shoes carefully and without disturbing Siger’s building project. “I am,” he continued, “wondering why you invited Jeanette. Mrs. Hudson, by the way, is on board with Jeanette staying in her flat. You owe her a week of daytime telly in return.”

Sherlock looked up, affronted. “You’re a very poor bargainer, John!” he grumbled.

Sliding his stockinged feet out of the shoes and up onto the wood of the chair frame, John raised both eyebrows and said, “I didn’t bargain at all. I asked for a favour.”

Shock and dismay! John laughed and clambered over the side of the chair to organize supper.

The conversation, such as it was, continued over the meal. “What all will we do for Christmas dinner?” John began after all were served.

Siger was involved in consuming bits of chicken, veg, and risotto with every evidence of enjoyment. John speared a bite of chicken on the tines of his fork, then used it to point at his partner. “You and I will have two babies and a toddler to handle. I can’t see cooking a big dinner this year.”

“It can’t be too difficult for us to get a meal for four catered, John,” Sherlock said confidently. 

“Five. Bert is joining us again,” John replied.

“I was not counting Siger as an adult consuming a full meal.” Sherlock had begun to look something up on his mobile.

“Right. Turkey, then? Or goose? Or a pork or beef roast?” As long as John didn’t have to cook it, they could plan almost anything.

“Whatever you think best,” Sherlock said.

John sighed and looked over at Siger, receiving a messy grin in return. “Should we check and see if _père_ is here? Or in his Mind Palace, Siger?”

“ _Oui!_ ” gurgled the toddler, signing and dripping rice from his hands.

John turned to his partner. “Turducken, then.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, his eyes still fixed on the tiny screen of his mobile. “Whatever you like.”

“Turducken. Mangelwurzels. Turkish delight. And Mycroft and Greg.” John dredged his memory for suggestions.

His partner nodded.

“Hog maw instead. Or haggis. We could also invite Molly and her beau. Make it a real holiday party. With dancing girls. And strippers. Or perhaps Mrs. Hudson could give us a demonstration.” Too late he thought of Siger and shot a guilty look at the toddler, who was concentrating on the molding properties of risotto at this point.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed absently.

“Sherlock. Sherlock!” John waved a hand between the dark-haired detective’s face and electronic attachment, to Siger’s great amusement.

“Yes, John?” Now those light, intense eyes were focused on his. His genius inferred, “There is not a problem. You do not have a question. You are on the verge of laughter. What do you want?”

“Sherlock, you just agreed to a haggis for Christmas dinner, and also to inviting Mycroft and Greg, a troupe of dancing girls, and having Mrs. Hudson show us some exotic dancing.” John gave the daft man a grin.

“Don’t be foolish, John. Mrs. Hudson will be visiting her sister for the holiday.” Sherlock appeared to be reviewing what John had actually said. “What is turducken?”

“Chicken stuffed into a duck stuffed into a turkey and then the whole lot roasted,” John told him.

“We are not ancient Romans, John. Will you be serving dormice stuffed with honey next?” Sherlock asked acidly.

John pointed out, “You did suggest we cater.”

“Roast goose with onion sauce. Sprouts. Mash. Plum pudding. Invite my brother and his paramour.” A tiny grin quirked up the corner of the tall, thin detective’s mouth. “What? You don’t believe in divide and conquer? We will have three children, John. Best to have as many hands to help out as we can manage.”

“Is that why you invited Jeanette?” John said with surprise.

“What? No. I invited Jeanette because she will be alone on Christmas. She will not have had time after the babies are born to organize a trip to join her family in France. As you have said so many times, it is a family holiday. I thought you would be pleased.”

John Watson stared at the man he loved. Rising from the wooden kitchen chair, he put his arms around the man from behind and gave him a ferocious hug. There followed kissing, which Sherlock submitted to with good grace, and more than a little enjoyment. Siger pounded his high chair tray with the plastic looped spoon that he had not used at all for eating his meal, and shouted in excitement at hugging going on in the kitchen. 

When he had the opportunity, Sherlock offered, “So, I was right then?”

John laughed and began clearing the places. Sherlock carefully bookmarked the URL he had been examining on his mobile and stowed it in a trouser pocket for later. That night they washed up, bathed their son, and put him to bed together. Sherlock stored it all in his Mind Palace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas, sung by Dean Martin. Just because.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JDmMEfwrm_Q


	14. Christmas Card

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Siger and Bert put up the Christmas cards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Lunamoth116, for beta-reading!

Miss Alice Brown came up the stairs to 221B, followed impatiently by Albert Tran. Alice Brown moved much more slowly, more resolutely, than Bert, who had a tendency to race up the steps in a dangerous fashion. The office manager was in search of either of her two employers for a signature on some paperwork. Bert was arriving after classes for his scheduled time with Siger. 

Greeting Siger, who was happily “playing” his violin and singing to himself, Alice Brown - tidy in her cardigan, pearls, and Peter Pan-collared blouse - stepped over toys and books scattered about the rug and floor on her way over to her employer. Sherlock was examining photographs at the kitchen table, which had been pulled into the sitting area. Alice Brown strove mightily not to focus on the pictures. They were horrific. At least Mr. Holmes was keeping them up and out of sight of his son, she reminded herself. 

Having obtained the desired signatures, she attempted to hand over a packet of Christmas cards that had arrived in the mail. Sherlock Holmes, gathering up his crime scene photos, told her, “Alice Brown, please give those to Bert to handle. Bert? I’m off to Lestrade’s office. John will be meeting me there. We won’t be home for supper. And Siger will need a bath, as he got jammy at lunch.”

The consulting detective kissed his son on the head and told him, “I am going out now, Siger. You may open Christmas cards with Bert. Supper is a casserole that Mrs. Hudson put in the refrigerator. Show Bert where our bedtime book is, because we were not reading in the nursery when we did that last chapter. I will see you in the morning.”

“Bye.” Siger waved to his father, then raised his arms for Bert to pick him up. Once he had obtained the desired position, the toddler reached for the mail held in Bert’s other hand. 

“Siger,” Bert said, “did you want to help with the Christmas cards? You must be gentle with them.”

They sat on the rug; Bert opened the envelopes and Siger pulled the cards out. Bert read the cards, pointing with his finger to show the little boy the words, and Siger read the pictures on the fronts of the cards. “Bird. Tree. Star.” Siger did get stumped at “snowman”, as he’d never seen an actual man made out of snow. Bert was not sure if he’d explained it well enough for an almost two-year-old to understand.

The last card was a nativity scene from the church that John took Siger to from time to time. Bert was reminded of Siger’s baptism there. “This card, Siger, is addressed to you,” he told the boy.

“Mines?” Siger lit up as though he’d been given a prize.

“Well…” Bert thought a moment on how to express it. “All of these cards -” he spread out the pile “- are yours, and your daddy’s, and your _père’s_. This one is addressed just to you. So they are all your cards to share with your fathers. But this one is yours alone.” Bert thought he might have gotten it right. The thing was, he had no kids of his own, and really, how did one know how a toddler was going to react? Even if the toddler was as singular as Siger.

Siger was deep in thought. His more-than-ginger, defiantly red curls were standing on end, and he looked a bit like a red dandelion clock. Bert settled himself a little more comfortably on the rug and began to stack the cards. There were none up on the bookshelf yet, but he remembered where they had been last Christmas. Swinging Siger up onto his hip, Bert asked, “Shall we put them up on the bookcase?”

With Bert handing each one to the boy, and Siger leaning them on the shelf, they disposed of all but Siger’s cradle roll card. Siger examined it, and Bert waited patiently for him. Finally, Siger waved the card. “Card for Daddy. Card _de père_.”

 _“Carte de père_ ”, explained Bert. “We don’t have any cards just for your daddy or your _père_ , Siger.”

Siger repeated, “Card for Daddy. _Carte de père_.”

Bert had a think. Then he asked, “Siger, would you like to make a card for your daddy and for _père_?”

Siger was enthralled with the idea. “Yes!” 

Bert scrounged around the flat to find items for the cards - construction paper, Siger’s toddler crayons, glue and some foil and wrapping paper. They made a card for John first. Siger drew a line, and told Bert that it was his daddy with a big smile. They drew a pine tree to make it Christmas-y and glued a foil star at the top. Inside Bert printed, “Happy Christmas, Daddy from Siger”, and had the toddler “sign” it below.

The next card had a different coloured line with a scribble at the top that Siger informed Bert was “ _les cheveux du père_ ”. Beside that was a red circle shape cut from wrapping paper that Siger said was Father Christmas. Inside that one Bert wrote, “Joyeux Noël, père”.

Bert started to put everything away, but Siger stopped him. “Gammy Hudson,” he said earnestly. After the card for Mrs. Hudson, they made one for Miss Alice Brown, and then Unko Mycoft, and for Unko Estra, for Auntie Harry, for Flute, for Miss Mahi, for Padraig their Postman, for Miss Willis their librarian, and finally, one for Bert. There was a forest of colourful cards standing on the coffee table when they put the crayons away. Taking the card to present to Miss Alice Brown, Bert asked for suitable envelopes. 

Alice Brown displayed her card with Siger’s assistance, and handed over envelopes of an acceptable size, as well as stamps and a list of addresses for those not readily deliverable.

Mrs. Hudson was thrilled with hers, and taped it right up on the wall with her other Christmas cards. Siger received kisses equitably. He remained cheerful up until bedtime, when they could not find the bedtime book.

As the normally good-natured toddler became more and more upset, Bert sent out texts requesting the location of the book. Hearing nothing from John or Sherlock, the _au pair_ suggested an alternative, or several as Siger grew testy.

Bert was shocked when Siger shouted, “ _Non!_ ” at him, and started to cry loudly, kicking his feet into the runners of the rocking chair. Afraid, and upset himself, Bert picked the little boy up and held him close, rubbing his back and rocking, singing softly to Siger in a variety of languages.

Weepy and hiccuping, Siger’s storm passed. Bert read several of his favorite books before tucking him into the small bed. “Night, Bert,” was returned when he wished Siger a good night.

Troubled, Bert turned on the monitor, turned out the light, and went downstairs to look up tantruming on his laptop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canadian Brass Christmas music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zUfN-2Qyokg


	15. Agnus Dei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nativity scenes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Lunamoth116 for beta-ing!

Siger ran his little fingers over the carved wooden figure of the baby, tracing the yellow-painted straw of the manger beneath him. “Mines?” he asked, his light-coloured eyes lifted to his father’s blue ones. 

John nodded. “This crèche set is for you, and for the babies when they are old enough. You can learn the story, and share it with them.”

They sat in the middle of the sitting room rug, surrounded by the bubbly plastic packing material that had protected the wooden inhabitants of the nativity set. Lined up in front of the boy and his father were: the stable, made of slats of wood and topped with a star; the Christ child’s parents; an ox, a donkey, a variety of sheep, shepherds, and Wise Men. Siger had examined them all carefully, but it seemed to be the infant Jesus that had caught his attention. John figured that was about right.

As they’d unwrapped each piece, John had read the part of the Christmas story that was that person’s own. He felt that Siger had been enormously patient, and for that, John was grateful. He and Sherlock had bought the wooden crèche set while on a case. Sherlock had insisted on a set of people who did not look Germanic, and: “For God’s sake, John, they are a Semitic people. They should look like it!” The doctor had been waiting to share the set with his son for almost six months.

Sherlock Holmes was watching them. He did not take part, as he had told John he would not. But he had taken several photographs of the pair unwrapping the set, and so he counted himself involved. Sherlock did not have John’s faith. He believed in what he could see and feel and touch. The religion issue had been something they’d discussed at the beginning, when they’d agreed that John would share his faith with the children, and Sherlock would not mock it.

John was telling Siger, “We put Mary and Joseph out now, and on Christmas Eve we will put the baby and the shepherds and their sheep out. The Wise Men will arrive twelve days after Christmas. I suppose we should get some camels to go with them.”

Siger was nodding his head as though he understood perfectly. Sherlock knew it was a conditioned response, but he found it endearing anyway. “Why not an elephant?” posited the consulting detective. “It could be accurate.”

Siger loved that idea; John was doubtful. There was a discussion that lasted through dinner and bedtime. Siger was allowed to take the baby in the manger up to his room. They set the wooden figure on his dresser, and left it there after the bedtime ritual, and the turning out of the light.

…

Mrs. Hudson, Mrs. Turner, and Siger were taking a walk. Well, Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Turner called it a walk, but it was nothing like the brisk long meanderings about London that Sherlock was fond of. It was also not like John Watson’s brisk and efficiently straight outings to the park. Finally, it was not like Bert’s walks, which involved a lot of girls stopping the stroller and flirting with the _au pair_. Also, Siger was doing very little walking, as he was riding in the stroller.

When Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Turner took a walk, they generally went one or two blocks, very slowly, commenting on the neighbors and holiday decorations, and then found a nice place to have lunch. Today they were walking past one of the churches in the neighborhood that had a nativity scene set up in front of it.

“What a lovely Mary,” Mrs.Turner commented. “I always do love church decorations in the season, don’t you?”

“Within reason,” replied Mrs. Hudson. “I like the wooden one down the street better than the plastic. I do wonder why all the Marys are blonde though. John got a crèche for the house. Oh, not a big thing, a small wooden nativity scene. I think it’s the first one I’ve seen where the people from the Christmas story all look Middle Eastern. Except for the Kings. One of them has white hair and a long beard, one is Ethiopian, and then an Asian.

“Siger,” she asked, “do you want to get out of the stroller for a bit?”

Siger said, “Yes!” and after being released from captivity, set out to explore the crèche. At first, Mrs. Hudson held his hand firmly to keep him behind the small white painted fence in front. Siger could just reach the white plastic lamb that rested beside the hollow plastic Joseph. The figures were light enough to be picked up and stored in the basement for most of the year. Someone had not done a good job in wiping away cobwebs from Joseph’s sad and bearded face after taking him out of storage.

Siger called this to Mrs. Hudson’s attention while she and Mrs. Turner chatted away. “Don’t worry, love,” said Mrs. Turner, and she pulled a handful of crumpled tissue from her jacket pocket, spat on it, then wiped the offending gray mass from Joseph’s face with the wet tissue, much as she would have removed a smudge from Siger’s. “All better!”

Siger looked each figure over carefully, then went to practice walking up and down the low, flat steps to the church porch, while the ladies gossiped and discussed the soon-to-be-born twins. He was fond of the huge wooden doors with their cheerful red paint. Molded cement framed the wood in twists and curls, of leaves and small figures. It was a world of sensory delight, as he was allowed to explore them with his fingers. No one was afraid of them being broken; he did not have to hear “Be careful now, Siger!”

The two old women became aware of their growling stomachs well before Siger lost his occupation in examining the door. Bustling the toddler back into the stroller, they headed for a lovely tea shop where the waitress would give Siger an extra big dollop of cream on his jam tart. So it was all good, wasn’t it?

…

Sherlock thought it would be good for Siger to see the animals at the living crèche. Readings were boring, but the lambs (sheep, really) and the ox and the ass should be an interesting learning experience for Siger. Unfortunately, it seemed that they were not allowed to touch the animals. 

Siger was interested. He was talkative, asking questions that Sherlock could only understand by dint of long practice translating his speech. Siger’s discussion on the wooly coats of the two Merino sheep was loud enough to intrude upon the readings of scripture that the man in the black cassock was attempting to force upon the public. The cassock needed to be washed. The man had been out to the pub instead of preparing for this presentation - possibly because he did this every year and felt it was unnecessary to practice the well-worn words.

Irritated, the tall agnostic whisked his son away. Off they went to the London Zoo to examine the animals there. Llamas and pigs might not have been part of the stable population for Joseph and Mary, but at least at the London Zoo Siger could help groom the goats and sheep. After the hands-on investigation of the sheep wools, they had a leisurely stroll-through to see the rest of the enclosures before picking up Daddy at the clinic. 

Dinner tonight was with Unko Mycoft and Uncko Estra at a small French restaurant. Siger hungrily tried everything on his daddy’s and _père’s_ plates. He told his uncles about the lions, the penguins, the giraffes, and the sheep.

Their next stop was Mycroft’s flat, where the adults took coffee in the sitting room and discussed a cold case that Sherlock believed was linked to an insurance claim he had been hired to investigate. Siger played on the floor with the animals his _père_ had bought for him at the zoo’s gift shop.

When Mycroft tidied up afterward, collecting china cups and saucers and the biscuit tray, he noticed items in the German carved crèche were out of order. Depositing the dishes in the kitchen for Anna to handle in the morning, he went back to correct the crèche. 

Next to the empty manger stood two penguins and a giraffe, looking expectantly, as though they were waiting.

Mycroft took a thoughtful moment. Then he shut off the table lamp, and closed up the room on his way to bed.

…

“A shoot will come up from the stump of Jesse,” John began reading from Isaiah to Siger, lying next to John in the toddler bed with the bees, his Lambkin, his plush violin, and his little football. It was crowded.

Sherlock was splayed out in the rocker, which was wedged against the wall to allow room for his legs. It did not rock very far at all now. After listening for a while, he interrupted, “Don’t you think Isaiah is a little bit advanced for a toddler, John?”

John gave him a stern look over the book, and continued reading, “In that day the wolf and the lamb will live together; the leopard will lie down with the baby goat. The calf and the yearling will be safe with the lion, and a little child will lead them all.”

Both of his fathers gave kisses and "I-love-you"s, then switched off the light, quietly arguing as they went down the steps to the sitting room. “The Bible is constantly quoted at crime scenes, John. It makes sense for me to know it.”

In the morning they would call Siger to stop playing and have breakfast, and discover the new additions to the crèche, in the form of a plastic wolf, a calf, a leopard, a goat, and a lion nestled next to the wooden lambs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Samuel Barber. Agnus Dei, and adagio for strings. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KkObnNQCMtM


	16. This Little Babe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unexpected.

John pushed gently against the open front door. “Jeanette?” he called into the hallway, holding Siger back with a hand. Hearing no reply, he knelt, face to face, next to his son. “Siger,” he said, and put a finger to his ear.

The little boy closed his mouth and stood very still. John nodded, then stood and quietly pushed the door all the way open. Stepping over the plastic bags filled with groceries, the doctor moved carefully into the flat. A moan came from the back, and John tensed as Jeanette walked slowly out of the bedroom, leaning against the wall with an arm cradling her abdomen. She straightened up at John’s, “Jeanette? Labor?”

She gave a nod, and then a laugh. “Don’t look so concerned, John. I have done this before. I just need to get my bag. A cab’s on its way.”

“Hold on, I have to get Siger. Then I’ll find your bag.” John retrieved his son from the stoop, gave the all clear sign, and carrying the boy on one hip, picked up the groceries from just inside the door and kicked it shut behind him.

“Oh, good.” Jeanette gave a gasp at another contraction. “I think the ice cream is melting.”

John set the toddler down. “Siger,” he said, “stay with Jeanette and hold her hand while I get her bag. And,” he added, looking at the bags he was holding, “put away her ice cream.”

When the cab arrived, they got Jeanette situated before climbing in beside her, hefting the hospital bag onto the floor. Another contraction came and went. “Six minutes,” John told her.

“This came on a lot faster than the last one,” Jeanette admitted.

“Babies coming?” Siger asked. “Flute hurting?”

Jeanette laughed. “Yes, Siger, your sisters should be here soon. It’s not hurting like falling down, sweetheart. I will be fine. We’re going to the hospital where the doctors will take care of me. And your sisters.”

“Daddy is a doctor,” Siger told her proudly.

“Daddy,” Jeanette said with a grunt, “might be the one to deliver your sisters if we don’t get there soon.”

“Not in my taxi!” shouted the panicked cabbie from up front.

“I’d really rather not have a baby in your cab!” Jeanette shouted right back.

John tried not to laugh, but a small snort came out. “Daddy’s laughin’,” Siger told her soberly.

“Yes, sweet. Don’t worry. We’ll get to the hospital quickly -” this was said pointedly in the cabbie’s direction “- and then Jeanette can laugh too.” John shifted the hospital bag, and checked Siger’s toddler seat to be sure he was belted in correctly.

“Did you call Sherlock?” Jeanette asked the blond doctor.

“Texted. He’ll meet us at the hospital,” responded John as he gave a reassuring smile to both the woman in labor and the little boy looking at her with concern. “Now,” John said with mock severity, “why aren’t you breathing properly?”

…

Siger had been to a hospital before. He did not remember the Initiative, of course. And he had never needed the A&E. Hospitals, to him, meant Miss Mahi (Miss Molly), and a clean empty mortuary. Sherlock and John did not take him into the autopsy rooms, and he had never been presented with a dead body. So hospitals meant a visit to Miss Molly, and a soft peppermint sweet that she kept in a little jar on her desk. Siger was allowed to have one each time they visited. 

This hospital was not Saint Bart’s. It was busy, and filled with people running about; they were all dressed the same, or similarly. Jeanette insisted on walking - better for the contractions, she insisted. They were all sent up to the birthing rooms, when a nurse refused to let Siger in. “It’s just until my partner comes,” John argued, one hand on Jeanette’s arm, hospital bag slung over his shoulder, and the other hand in Siger’s.

The nurse was adamant. Jeanette was getting stroppy - she did not want to start without her support. Not that she would have much choice soon. John was becoming angry. 

“Perhaps I can be of assistance,” came a familiar voice.

“Unka Mycoft!” shouted the toddler, running to him ready to be lifted up. In the background, the nurse was complaining about the noise. 

“Siger,” Mycroft asked him, “would you like to come and stay with me tonight? Uncle Lestrade will be staying over as well. After he arrives, we can have dinner and watch a movie. How does that sound?”

It sounded wonderful. Except that Siger started whispering, “Unko Mycoft, Flute is havin’ babies. Want to stay. Want to see the babies. The babies is mines!”

Very quietly, Mycroft answered him, “Siger, it may be a long while before Jeanette delivers the babies. It is hard work. Since Jeanette needs your Daddy and _père_ to help her with this hard work, you should come and help me at my home.”

“Siger can help Unko Mycoft?” Hopeful eyes stared into Mycroft’s hazel ones. “We come back tomorrow to see babies?”

“We shall. Now we will go and say ‘goodbye’ to Jeanette and your Daddy. Then Miss Anthea will ride in the car with us to go to my flat.” Mycroft Holmes was not someone that the nurse could say “no” to. She did think she was going to, but was taken aside by Miss Anthea before the words were delivered.

Siger, riding on his uncle’s hip, leant down to give Jeanette a kiss. There was a quick kiss from John as well, and then Siger saw his father turn to the surrogate, who gripped his hand tightly. The little boy was quiet as they walked down the bright hallways, shadowed by Miss Anthea. 

_Père_ was hurrying through the double doors, his black coat swinging, as they got to the entrance of the hospital. Siger gave him a tight hug, and received a kiss on the top of his head before Sherlock tossed the toddler’s backpack to Anthea. “Have fun -” this was said a little oddly “- with Uncle Mycroft, Siger. I will see you tomorrow, alright?”

“I come back to see the babies, _père. Je reviens pour voir mes sœurs,_ ” Siger reassured his father. _“Je t'aime père.”_

 _”Je t'aime aussi, Siger.”_ And with another kiss, his father said, “Goodbye” to his brother and ran off down the corridor to the lift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "This Little Babe" from A Ceremony of Carols by Benjamin Britten.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DQmd2hRf7FY


	17. All I Want For Christmas Is You.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Siger spends the night at Uncle Mycroft's flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Lunamoth116 for beta-reading!

Mycroft Holmes did not do much in the way of entertaining in his home. The formal dining room was solely for his own enjoyment. The music room had not seen a recital in years. His library was not created to impress, but set up for comfort’s sake with the books that he loved. Professional materials had their place in his office upstairs, of course. The only visitors - Anna, his housekeeper, was not included in that number - were limited to the Detective Inspector, and more lately to his brother, John, and Siger.

Recently the minor official for the British government had felt the stirring, almost a compulsion, to alter his living circumstances.

Leading Siger through the door of his flat, Mycroft hung the boy’s backpack on one of the wrought iron hooks in the tiled entryway to free up his hands. Siger was not yet able to zip or unzip, and Mycroft was constantly reminded of assisting Sherlock at this age. Strong memories those were, that made him wonder why he did not remember anyone doing the same for him. Would Siger store these memories of Uncle Mycroft? Or would he remember doing similar assistances for his sisters?

Siger pulled at his suit jacket sleeve, diverting Mycroft’s attention. “Unko Mycoft?” Siger asked. “No cot? I s’eep on bitty sofa?”

Mycroft hung his own winter overcoat next to Siger’s jacket. Then, taking up the backpack with one hand, he offered the other to his nephew. “I have a new place to show you, Siger.”

There was a door under the broad staircase. Siger had always been curious about the unassuming wooden door painted off-white to match the hallway walls. For that matter, Greg Lestrade had been curious as well, although he had never asked about it. It was partially hidden underneath the staircase, and on the way to a room that was being used more now than it had been for years. Greg enjoyed listening to Mycroft playing his piano, and planned to encourage him to play for Siger as well, now that the child had been introduced to the Music Room.

Mycroft led his nephew to the door, turned the plain brass handle, and stepped back to allow Siger to enter first. He was well-rewarded with the boy’s reaction to the beds, bunked against the wall.

“Will this do, Siger?” Mycroft asked.

“What is this?” Siger squeaked. “What is this, Unko Mycoft?”

“This,” said Mycroft, “is a room for you to sleep in when you come to visit me. Your carrycot will be needed for your sisters soon. You showed me your big bed at Baker Street, and I thought I would put one in this room for your use. For when you visit and stay overnight.”

“It is beautiful, Unko Mycoft!” 

The walls had been repainted a soft ivy green. The door and window frames were a bright, cheerful white, the windows looking out onto the garden sleeping in the winter chill. The bed, set off center against a long, windowless wall, was full-sized below, with a twin bunk on top. Under the bottom bunk resided a trundle bed. All were made up with matching hunter green sheets, and charcoal grey duvets. The ladder that led to the top bunk was detached, and lay on the upper mattress. Time for that when Siger was a bit older - and when his parents were present. Siger was rushing about the room examining everything. There were cupboards for storage, a dresser set up as a changing table, and a packing crate sitting in the corner by the tall windows.

Mycroft told the boy, “If any children stay overnight, you will have to share it. That is why there are so many beds. You will sleep on the bottom tonight. Is that acceptable, Siger?”

“Yes!” Siger tried to pull himself up onto the bottom bunk. “Unko Mycoft, up!”

Mycroft lifted his nephew onto the firm mattress, then showed him how wooden slats slid into slots on the side of the bed. “These boards will ensure your safety while you are sleeping. If you need to get down, you can call, and I will hear you on the monitor.”

Siger was rolling around on the bed that was much larger than his toddler bed at home. “Mines? For s’eeping in tonight?”

“Yes,” Mycroft answered, “for tonight, this is your bed.”

They placed Lambkin, the violin, the soccer ball, and all but one of the rubber bees into the bed, ready and waiting for Siger’s bedtime. One of the bees stayed with Siger as Uncle Mycroft lifted him from the bed and carried him off to fix supper.

...

The movie, _Winnie-the-Pooh and the Blustery Day_ , ended, and they had turned off the telly and assorted equipment. Burning oak logs crackled cheerfully in the fireplace, and Siger snored softly, red curls and rosy cheek leaning against his uncle’s starched arm. Greg Lestrade gave a quiet chuckle before standing from his place on the other side of Mycroft Holmes. “More eggnog?”

“No.” It was carefully indicated to avoid waking his nephew. Siger, heedless of his uncle’s solicitousness, mumbled a bit, and slid down onto Mycroft’s trousered leg. A slight thread of saliva traced its way across the fine fabric. Mycroft’s arm slipped from the brocaded back of the sofa to drape over the little being resting against him. In the quiet, he listened to the fire, and to the sounds of Gregory Lestrade messing about in his kitchen.

Greg came back with the baccarat tumbler filled with eggnog. The top was peppered with fresh nutmeg, a pungent scent that carried across the room as Geg flipped on the CD player. The mellow strains of _A Dave Brubeck Christmas_ filled the room with jazz piano. 

“Your weakness for nutmeg advertised your arrival,” Mycroft said quietly, as he relished the sight of the man: silver-haired, dressed casually in a thick, roll-neck sweater and worn denims.

Greg Lestrade smiled down at the picture. The tall, svelte, ginger bureaucrat - still in his work clothing, but minus the suit jacket - holding the child whose red curls stood out against the dark trouser leg. It was as warming as the fire beneath the antique mantel, or the very good quality of brandy in the eggnog.

Setting the tumbler down on the mosaic-tiled surface of an antique end table, Greg sat down next to his friend and romantic partner, settling close, and placing a sweatered arm around those thin shoulders. Mycroft leaned closer, still holding on to the toddler.

“Any news?” Greg asked, reaching for his drink.

“One daughter born, the next still in process. Sherlock will text instead of calling,” commented Mycroft.

Taking a sip, Greg savored the mouthful before swallowing and asking, “Any problems?”

“None so far,” Mycroft answered.

Greg drank some more in contented silence. He finally broke it to ask, “Sleeping arrangements?”

A smile that could be described as smug bloomed on that narrow face. “Siger will sleep in the children’s room. You will sleep upstairs in the master suite.”

“Yes,” Greg said saucily, “but then where will you sleep?”

“Well,” Mycroft said with a smirk, “I do suppose I could take one of the guest rooms. If that’s really what you want.”

“No, no,” was the quick answer. “I do believe that we can both fit in that great boat you call a bed.”

After a moment, he asked, “Children’s room?”

“Why don’t we get Siger ready for bed and I can show you,” Mycroft said as he slipped out from under the toddler, then picked him up.

“This is impressive. Always wondered what was under those stairs,” Greg told him as Mycroft pulled Siger’s pajama bottoms over a fresh nappy.

“I had this set up as an office when I bought the house,” the tall man explained as he slid his nephew under the bedclothes. Bending down, he gave Siger a kiss “goodnight” and brought the plush violin and Lambkin into the toddler’s reach. Turning on the monitor, he gestured for Greg to precede him through the door. “Then I never had any of them come to the house to work. It seemed a good use for the space to make a room for children to stay in when they visit.”

Greg was smiling at the image - the calm but dangerous bureaucrat, and the sleeping toddler. “Well, there’s certainly enough space. What’s in the packing crate?”

“That is Sherlock’s” Mycroft said absently. “It’s early yet. Would you like to watch another movie?”

“Reading’s fine for me. Why don’t we head up to bed, and we can take our time with our books before turning out the lights,” Greg said with a wholly different smile and a licentious lift of an eyebrow. 

Mycroft’s bedroom was large, a gigantic four-poster in the center of one wall, complete with wine-red brocade draperies. Greg’s overnight satchel had been tossed onto a wing-back chair in front of the small fireplace. Both chairs before the hearth had been upholstered in brocade that matched the bedclothes. Opening the walk-in closet to hang up his jeans, Greg turned in surprise. “Your closet’s half-empty. What happened?” he called into the next room.

Mycroft came out of the ensuite bathroom, vest open and cuffs unbuttoned, and leaned against the doorsill looking steadily at the silver-haired man. “I have something else to show you,” he said quietly.

“Alright.” Greg finished hanging his jeans and sweater. He looked just as good in boxers and undershirt. “What?”

“What” turned out to be a room next to Mycroft’s office, which had formerly been (as Greg remembered it) a guest room. Now, instead of an expensive bedroom suite, a black wood desk and matching bookshelves dominated the room. Otherwise it was empty, conveying a sense of waiting. 

“I had thought -” Mycroft was extremely quiet as he spoke “- that perhaps this might make an office for you.”

“For me?” Greg said in surprise.

Mycroft’s nervousness would not be evident to anyone except Greg, Sherlock, and possibly Anthea. “I am asking you to move in with me, Greg. I can enumerate reasons why this would be a logical decision on your part.”

Greg laughed. “I imagine you can. What about non-logical reasons?”

Mycroft stepped forward to put his arms around the other man. “I can think of a few,” he said, leaning forward for a kiss. He kept silent about the pair of platinum rings resting in a jeweler’s box in his dresser. Sherlock had asked him not to propose to Greg. Not yet. It had been a very polite request, and as such Mycroft had acquiesced.

“I believe,” Greg told him, “that I could be persuaded.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I Want For Christmas Is You.
> 
> In ASL.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iMiHI0sJxSk


	18. While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks By Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arrivals!

John Watson considered himself a lucky man. The entire year, even the bit where he’d been kidnapped, had been filled with adventure. Right now his hand was being twisted off of his wrist by the woman in labour on the birthing bed, and it was simply another adventure.

He thought that she was cursing in French. John was not fluent in French, but the words sounded like curses. John had a vile mouth on himself sometimes, and although he was uncertain as to exactly what Jeanette was saying, he recognized the spirit in which the words were being shouted.

Jeanette’s short cap of fine, silky black hair was sweated and plastered all about her face. One baby had been born, and was cleaned, checked over, and carried off to the hospital nursery. John had gotten to cut her umbilical cord, and he thought she looked beautiful. None of them had a chance to hold her yet.

Sherlock’s startled comment had been, “John! She has no hair! Our daughter is bald!”

Jeanette took exception to this. “She’s a perfectly lovely baby, Sherlock, now get the hell over here and hold my hand!”

This being a teaching hospital, they were not alone in the birthing room, which was small but stuffed with people. John thought that Jeanette had switched to castigating people in French because she believed they would not understand her. Possibly she was correct, as her comments, though they brought laughter to Sherlock’s lips, were ignored by the interns and student nurses. The resident and obstetrician worked steadily through it all. They were old troupers, and had probably seen it all before.

Now that their first daughter had been born, the second one was taking her time in arriving. “I am so very tired,” Jeanette almost sang in English. “When will this be bloody over?”

“Breathe,” John reminded her.

“Okay, one more push, Jeanette,” the obstetrician, Dr. Nicholas, told her. “The baby’s crowning.”

“This one has hair!” Sherlock exclaimed with delight.

“Oh, good,” Jeanette responded breathlessly. “So glad to know you approve.” Taking a deep breath she bore down, pushing the little baby girl into the world.

…

Mycroft scrabbled for the mobile in the dark. “Yes, Sherlock?” he answered the insistent tone. “Oh, John. Both safe? One at five pounds, one at five and a half pounds. Yes. Yes, Siger went to bed like a lamb. You’re both staying with Jeanette and the babies? Yes, we will bring him to the hospital first thing in the morning. What? Rosalind Margaret, and Miranda Violet. Thank you, John. Yes, you too.”

“Good news?” asked Greg Lestrade in the dark beside him.

“Rosalind Margaret and Miranda Violet. Both girls born healthy, Miranda with an Apgar of 9, five pounds in weight. Rosalind with an Apgar of 8, five-and-a-half pounds,” Mycroft relayed.

“Miranda Violet? Wasn’t Violet your mother’s name?” Greg had the gift of waking up quickly. It was useful after all those years on the force.

“Yes. They’ve named one of the girls after our mother. I believe that Margaret is John’s mother’s name.” Mycroft placed the mobile on his bedside table. “I expect we won’t wake Siger up with the news quite yet.”

“No. Let the little kid get some sleep. With two babies in the house, sharing his room, he won’t be getting much for a while.” Greg gave a sleepy laugh.

Mycroft Holmes stared into the darkness. “I’m an uncle,” he said in surprise, before adding, “I hadn’t thought I’d feel like that with these two. They are, after all, John’s children.”

“Yeah, Uncle Mycroft. As if sixty-six nieces and nephews weren’t already enough.” Now Greg’s laughter was more awake. “What shall we do to celebrate?”

Mycroft rolled toward his partner and now flatmate. “I am certain we will think of something,” he said.

…

John Watson rocked on the wooden rocker in the double room, with Jeanette sleeping soundly behind the white curtain dividing the room. He held Rosalind Margaret, and was feeding her from a bottle. Sherlock Holmes had settled his long body on the second hospital bed, and held a bottle for Miranda Violet.

“She has hair, Sherlock,” he pointed out. “It’s light, and fluffy, and just very pale blonde.”

“It’s barely there at all, John. Not like Rosalind’s.” And the dark-curled head bent to press a soft kiss on the baby’s head crowned with barely perceptible tow-coloured down. “Still, it will grow. Were you a tow-haired little boy, John?”

“I believe so,” John admitted, leaning to put his own kiss on the longer, red-gold fluff on top of Rosalind’s head.

“So tiny.” The consulting detective seemed to be working his way through a checklist of observations on the babies. “At five pounds, she’s smaller than Siger was. Though I believe that one pair of twins at the Initiative was smaller.”

Tiny though they were, both babies gave satisfactory burps after their first meal. John watched Sherlock madly attempt to type his observations into a spreadsheet on the laptop placed atop the table beside the bed.

“Time, gentlemen,” came a clear high voice from the doorway. Sister Leona, dark-skinned and wearing a set of scrubs decorated with cheerful baby animals, pushed a clear plastic cot on wheels in to collect the babies. “These little girls need to go back to the nursery, and you two gentlemen should get some rest. Those chairs against the wall stretch so that you can lie down on them.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock told her as he reluctantly handed Miranda to the nurse. “John and I will share this bed. There’s quite enough room.”

Leona looked doubtful, but John, handing Rosalind to her, added, “It’s true. He’s like a limpet, and takes up most of the bed space. But it will be on top of me, so there’s no worry.”

“Good night, little loves.” John bent over the babies, who were beginning to fall asleep themselves. “Tomorrow you will meet your big brother.” Standing up and stretching to take out a kink, he grinned at the night shift nurse. “Ta, Leona. See you in two hours?”

“Get to sleep, Dr. Watson,” Leona said with mock disapproval. She shut off the room light, and closed the door behind her and the babies.

Sherlock Holmes toed his shoes off and shoved them out of the bed with his toes. Unbuckling his belt, he dropped that to join them. Climbing under the sheet and thin, thermal blanket, he said, “Come on, John,” and lifted the edge of the bedclothes for his partner to climb in, minus shoes and belt.

Spooning, facing the doorway to wait for the next feeding, they both fell into the darkness of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kings Choir - While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IgYzJDxxzN8
> 
> Not my spouse's version. While Shepherds Washed THeir Socks by Night.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qEo2aVWl_XA


	19. Go Tell It On The Mountain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my beta-reader, Lunamoth116!

Siger, who usually talked a mile a minute, was very quiet in the car on the ride to the hospital. There were no questions, no observations, no singing. Greg Lestrade drove them - Mycroft and Siger Holmes - as he planned a quick peek at the new arrivals, and then would head to work.

Mycroft was working in the front seat on his mobile. In fact, there was a great, huge well of silence in the car but for the clicking of Mycroft’s fingers on the mobile keypad. “Everything okay back there, Siger?” he asked finally.

“Yes, Unka Estra,” came the piping reply. “I em thinking.”

Well. Okay, then.

Sherlock Holmes looked up from his seat in the circle of Jeanette, Mrs. Hudson, and John, to see his elder brother, dressed in a woolen overcoat like a great bat. “Mycroft,” he demanded, “where is Siger?”

“I em here! _Père_ ,“ came a little voice from behind his annoying brother. 

Mycroft was unsurprised to see his little brother in a nicely pressed black suit with the aubergine shirt. John looked surprisingly unrumpled in a hideous Christmas jumper and jeans; Mrs. Hudson must have brought them a change of clothing. On a small table in the center of the conclave was a container filled with fairy cakes. The tea they each held was obviously hospital catering from the paper cups, and over brewed, judging from the smell.

Siger climbed his tall father and was telling him about his visit to Uncle Mycroft’s flat. “Mines porridge had fruits. An’ I had _saucisse minuit_. An’ I had melon. An’ Unka Estra drove Unka Mycoft an’ me. An’ there is a bed that is mines at Unka Mycoft’s house now.”

“Fancy that,” John said. “A bed for you at Uncle Mycroft’s? So we won’t need the carrycot when you go to visit, will we?”

“No! It is a big bed! Bigger than Daddy’s bed! Mines babies is gonna go in carrycot!” Siger poured the words out from the tight hug of his _père’s_ arms.

Reminded of the purpose of his visit, Siger twisted to look at Jeanette. “Flute! You em okay? Where are mines babies?”

“I am feeling much better, Siger,” Jeanette said, with a smile for the little boy.

Siger climbed down from his father’s arms, and stood very close to the woman, his hands behind his back. Jeanette still looked tired from her long labours of the past day, and when the toddler said something that Jeanette could not understand, she looked searchingly at John to translate. 

John smiled. “Siger is asking for your permission to touch you. I think he wants to feel where the babies were.”

“All right, Siger.” Jeanette gave him a sparkling smile and stretched so that he could gently pat her stomach. 

“Babies gone?” Siger asked.

Jeanette nodded happily. “The babies are in the nursery. Your fathers can take you to see them, if you like.”

First though, Siger collected kisses from everyone in the room, and then looked up at his Daddy. “Show me the babies, Daddy. If. You. Pul-ease,” he enunciated slowly and carefully.

“Oh, Mycroft -” Sherlock started.

“That,” Mycroft said starchily, “is not my influence. That is entirely Greg’s doing.”

“What’s my doing?” Greg Lestrade looked in the door.

Siger ran to him. “Unka Llllesterad! I said it! I said ‘if you pul-ease’!”

“Good job, big boy!” Greg swung him up in the air. “Are your fathers going to take you to see the girls now?”

John stood and joined them at the door. “We were just on our way. Do you have time to see them, too?”

“Just came from there. Wanted to check in before I headed off to a crime scene. They are beautiful, John! Sherlock! Is this your surrogate? Hello, I’m Greg Lestrade, a friend of the family. The girls are lovely! I have to go! Mycroft? I’ll see you at home later.” And the detective inspector handed Siger off to John and disappeared down the hallway.

Mycroft Holmes smiled smugly at Sherlock’s grimace and John’s expression of astonishment. “Perhaps,” he suggested, “you should take Siger to see Rosalind Margaret and Miranda Violet, while I entertain Ms. Newcastle and Mrs. Hudson?”

As Siger was only a very little boy, he could not drag his parents out of the room. As it was, he did his very best with John, pulling on his hand. “We go see the babies!”

Sherlock, John, and Siger walked down the hallway to the locked double doors leading to the nursery unit. They were buzzed in, and found the long windows with rows of new babies. A nurse nodded to Sherlock and John, and finished diapering a small reddish-skinned morsel of humanity. She washed her hands, and then picked up one small bundle, then another, placing them both into the cot cart and bringing them out of the nursery to a small area set aside with rocking chairs to bottle-feed the babies. The short, blonde woman used a scanner on plastic bracelets around Sherlock’s and John’s wrists, then on the bracelets on the baby’s wrists before setting them up with a baby each.

Sherlock motioned his son to move closer. “Siger,” he said, “this is your little sister, Miranda Violet.”

Siger, confronted with the reality of a real baby, put his hands behind his back and asked permission to touch. “Gently, Siger,” John said. “They are too little to play with right now, but they will grow bigger.”

That toddler’s finger, so small as it was, was much larger than his sister’s miniature digit. He ran it gently along her arm. Then he touched her tiny ear, and the nose that looked like his daddy’s, if a good deal littler. “M’randa Vi-let.” He pronounced it carefully.

“Yes.” Sherlock watched them both, the baby and the toddler.

“ _Père?_ Where is her hair?” Siger asked.

Sherlock started to laugh. “That is what I said, Siger!” he told his son. “That is exactly what I asked your daddy!”

“The other baby has hair. Did I have hair when I was little?” Siger wondered.

“You did indeed, Siger. It was curly, like _père’s_ , but red like it is now,” said John from the other rocking chair where he was feeding his armful of baby.

Siger walked over to his daddy and examined that armful. He looked to his father for permission, then duplicated his experiment of running his finger over the baby’s arm, then her ear, and then a touch to her nose. “Who is this baby, Daddy?”

“This,” answered John, “is Rosalind Margaret.”

Siger tried. He could only get “Ross” before he ran into difficulties.

“Ross is good for now,” John told him. “Rosalind Margaret, this is your big brother, Siger.”

Siger said, “I em a big brother. If. You. Plllease, Daddy. I can hold the baby? She is mines. The babies are mines.”

Sherlock told him gravely, “You may, Siger. They are yours, and mine, and Daddy’s. We are a family.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jim Nabors singing "Go Tell It On The Mountain".
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CB2i7uCISrs


	20. There's No Place Like Home For the Holidays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When will they go home?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray for beta-ing!
> 
> And thank you to Lunamoth116!

“We go home, Daddy?” Siger asked from where he was attempting to interest Miranda Violet in one of his rubber bees. Another bee lay equally ignored in Rosalind Margaret’s cot. Miranda’s dark blue gaze was focused on her big brother’s face. Or possibly his red curls.

Then, as an afterthought, the boy asked, “We take babies home?”

“Tomorrow we will take the babies home, Siger,” said Sherlock Holmes, from his supposedly comfortable chair in the family meeting space that he and John had taken over to give Jeanette a bit of privacy. 

That statement started another train of thought in Sherlock’s brain. Oh. Tomorrow. Which meant another night in the hospital. Either that, or leave their daughters here without them. Really, it would be best to take Siger home to Baker Street. How would they alternate care, then?

Which parent would take charge of Siger? Which the babies?

Sherlock had to admit to himself that he would rather escape back to his home. Preferably with his partner, his son, and his daughters. He suspected that Siger would prefer to go home with John. That left Siger with the feeling of being abandoned with their daughters in this place.

John, of course, would be up to dealing with any challenge. The medical atmosphere would be a second home to Dr. John Watson. And yet, Sherlock wanted to be the father who was there for their daughters as well.

As the tall, thin genius worked his way through the daunting web of emotions spanning this room of his mind palace, he realized that there had been a change. A small body was now huddled in his lap, plush violin clutched to a little jumpered chest. He heard, “ _Père nous rentrer à la maison?_ ”

Sherlock Holmes became aware of the little body - bones and flesh, and tumbled red curls - snuggled in tight within the sphere of his arms and lap.

John was watching them with a smile; for all of its sweetness, it was a wholly masculine aspect.

Rosalind Margaret - silly, really, to keep using both names - was sleeping in John’s arms. That jumper. No matter how soft it was, that thing had the most horrible orange-red hue.

Miranda Violet gave a small screech from where she had managed to liberate one arm, which was waving about as though boxing with the air.

“ _Père_ , Miranda Vi’let is wavin’,” Siger said softly into his father’s immaculately shirted chest. 

They laughed, John and Sherlock and Siger. Miranda screeched again, watching a cord waving in front of the ventilation grate on the wall. 

What John Watson wanted, more than anything, was to be at home in their sitting room, drinking tea and listening to Sherlock play happy French tunes on his violin. He could see that Sherlock was wearing thin in this place. With all of the people surrounding them and demanding observation, it was no wonder.

“Sherlock,” he said quietly, “what do you think about taking Siger home?” He could read well the flash of relief on his partner’s face. Oh, good Lord. Here was Sherlock being noble and self-sacrificing, and telling them that John and Siger should go home. Sherlock would do well enough staying.

Of course he would. That was not the point. Oh, the discussion that ensued, with Siger putting in comments here and there. When had he gotten so grown? Looking at their son compared to the tininess of the pair of daughters showed how much maturing Siger had been doing. 

A knock on the door frame interrupted them. “Hello, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson,” said the man in a white lab coat.

“Hello!” cried Siger, and he waved to ensure that the man in the lab coat noticed him this time.

“And hello to you, young man,” replied the doctor. “What do you think of your new sisters, eh? Pretty boring with them sleeping all of the time.”

John held his breath. Sherlock looked down at his son. “No!” Siger said to the doctor. “Mine babies are beautiful! I em not bored!”

Hearing a snort from his daddy’s direction, Siger looked over to see a bright, polite smile on Daddy’s face. 

“Yes, Doctor -” Sherlock gave a quick glance at the man’s badge “- Arbogast. How can we help you?”

“Checkout procedure. Nothing too onerous. If you and Dr. Watson would please sign these papers, we’ll see about getting you and your daughters home.” He passed the documents into the imperious long-fingered hand stretched toward him.

“Siger,” his _père_ directed him, “please get my pen. Inside jacket pocket.”

John sighed. At least Sherlock used “please” with the boy, if he did not with anyone else.

“John,” the man with a lap full of Siger said sharply, “the names are incorrect on the birth certificates and paperwork.”

“Oh, really?” If Sherlock had been observing his partner instead of Dr. Arbogast and the paperwork, he would have noticed the blandness of the reply.

“Yes. Dr. Arbogast, these will need to be corrected. They read Rosalind Margaret Holmes and Miranda Violet Holmes. Holmes, where they should read Watson as the last name.”

“But -” Dr. Arbogast looked at John Watson.

Who chimed in, “Siger, would you like to share your last name with your sisters?”

“Yes! I em Siger Hamish Holmes! The babies em mines. They em Holmes!”

“But Siger,” Sherlock asked, “don’t you think Rosalind and Miranda should share Daddy’s name? Shouldn’t they be Watsons?”

Siger thought about that.

The doctor in the doorway though to make a comment, but he was forestalled by the toddler. “You mus’ be quiet. I em thinkin’.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it. A flush bloomed on his cheek. John giggled. The giggle grew into a chuckle. When Siger fixed his laughing father with a gimlet gaze exactly like his _père’s_ , and told him severely, “I mus’ have quiet, Daddy. I em thinkin’”, John could not stop, and the chuckle became a full out belly laugh.

The noise woke the two babies, who gave nearly identical squeaks of indignation. Siger looked up at his _père’s_ fond smile.

“ _Père?_ ” he said under the noise of John Watson’s laughter. Then he asked, “ _Père_ , we em Watsons too? We em Holmes, an’ we em Watsons?”

Sherlock leaned down and said softly, “We are, Siger. I misunderstood the gift your Daddy is giving me. It is all alright.”

John would soon be in need of oxygen. His laughter slowed down. Sherlock’s voice cut through it all. “Very well. Pen, Siger. So that I can sign these papers and we can all go home to Baker Street.”

Siger asked, “We all go? _Père_ , Daddy, Ross and M’randa? All go home to Baker Street?”

“It would appear so,” commented his father as the papers were handed over to John for his signature.

Siger was still thinking. “Flute come too?”

“Flute?” It seemed that Dr. Arbogast was having difficulty following the thread of the conversation.

“Ms. Newcastle,” Sherlock said abruptly. 

Speaking directly to Siger this time, Dr. Arbogast told him, “No, Ms. Newcastle will be staying another night to rest. She may go home tomorrow.”

John reassured his son, “Flute will be celebrating Christmas with us. We will see her in a couple of days.”

“Okay,” said the toddler, before struggling down from his father’s knees. He began to gather his belongings into the knapsack lying on the floor.

It took a good deal more effort to organize the twins. Then they visited Jeanette one more time. She was surrounded by visitors, and from the state of her room, Sherlock postulated that she had been flooded by company all day.

They settled into the car that Mycroft had sent. The cab, which Sherlock had hopefully called, was too small for two grown men, a toddler with toddler seat, and two baby car seats filled with the twins. Even at the inconvenience of being indebted to Mycroft, it was good to be going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check here to hear the great Leon Redbone singing "There's No Place Like Home For the Holidays"
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hXt8DM1H-DI


	21. A Cup O' Tea An' A Slice O' Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home, home, home!

Mrs. Hudson was out the door and onto the stoop before they’d gotten out of Mycroft’s car. The pepperpot figure of Mrs. Turner followed her, with a hand clutching a lavender cardigan. “Gammy Hudson!” Siger ran to her, giving a hug that almost sent the landlady over backward. 

“Mind my hip, Siger.” Mrs. Hudson smiled down at the little boy.

“Daddy, _père_ bring the babies home, Gammy Hudson! They my sisters!” Siger was hopping up and down in excitement.

“Hello, Mrs. Hudson! Hello, Mrs. Turner, are you here for a visit? Or to take all of Mrs. Hudson’s money at cards?” John Watson carried Siger’s backpack on one arm, and Miranda Violet’s car seat, complete with baby tucked securely in the flannel blankets, over the other.

“Why, I came to see the children, of course!” Mrs. Turner said briskly. “I brought those anisette biscuits you like, John Watson, so you mind your manners!”

“Mrs. Turner,” Sherlock acknowledged the woman as he leaned down to give Mrs. Hudson a kiss on the cheek. 

“Thank you, George,” John called back to Mycroft’s driver, as the man gave a salute and pulled out into traffic.

Mrs. Hudson looked at them all, then took the suit bag from Sherlock. “Let’s all come inside. You get settled, and then Mrs. Turner and I will come up with some tea for you. That hospital tea would poison anyone. Mrs. Turner, if you would just grab Siger’s toddler seat, we’ll leave those in the entryway.”

Siger would insist on walking up the steps on his own. Sherlock and John released the babies from their car seats, and carrying them, their infant bags from the hospital, and Siger’s backpack, the parade slowly made its way up the staircase in Siger’s wake.

There was a great deal of excitement as Siger tried to introduce his sisters to everything of interest in the apartment. Rosalind looked unimpressed, but at least she was watching Siger. Miranda went back to sleep, having awoken on the trek upstairs. Both babies lay on the floor atop one of Aunt Harriet’s crocheted blankets.

John warmed up formula in hot water on the hob, while Sherlock brought out the double swing. Siger poked at the machine. “I em too big,” he said sadly.

Head poked out of the kitchen, John said, “We’ll try out the swings at the park, alright, Siger? Those are for big boys.”

Sherlock, perhaps motivated by some memory of his own childhood, swooped down upon the toddler and swung him up into the air. Siger giggled, and shrieked with excitement as his father got him well and truly wound up. 

“Goodness,” came Mrs. Hudson’s voice from the door, “what are you doing?”

“I em flyin’! Gammy Hudson!” said Siger from over her (and Sherlock’s) head.

“You’re just in time for Rosalind and Miranda’s tea, Mrs. Hudson, Mrs. Turner,” John said as he came out with bottles and flannels for over his and Sherlock’s shoulders. 

“You do what you need to do.” She left Mrs. Turner to set up the teapot, covered in a cosy that Harry had gifted Mrs. Hudson over the summer, and the mugs. There were sandwiches, and the plate of biscuits, and a server filled with slices of cake. Mrs. Hudson poked about the stereo system until cheerful Christmas carols filled the air. 

Rosalind’s deep blue eyes were riveted on her father’s face as she sucked at the formula. Sherlock found himself staring down into that tiny face, fascinated by the movements as she drank. Even with his experience with Siger and all the other babies at the Initiative, he was unable to completely read this little individual.

Miranda looked everywhere except at John, who was doing his best to get her attention as he fed her the bottle. Her nearly hairless head was capped by a yellow knit skullcap. 

Siger chatted away to Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Turner from his high chair, which the ladies had pulled in from the kitchen. He cheerfully waved a chicken sandwich as he described the big bed at his Uncle Mycroft’s flat. 

By the time that the little girls were done with their bottles, and had expressed a satisfactory burp of air, the Mesdames Hudson and Turner had finished their tea and were ready to hold Miranda and Rosalind. Miranda and Rosalind were ready to fall asleep, and they were happy to do so on the soft bosoms of the two landladies.

Siger, after being let down from his high chair and a quick change of nappy, brought out his blocks and began to build. Sherlock and John sat down on their respective chairs and enjoyed their first tea at home with their children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Worzel Gummidge. A Cup O' Tea An' A Slice O' Cake
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WimRgpZ2IGQ


	22. Siger and Stollen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Siger get out of the house a bit.

John Watson was made of stronger stuff. John Watson did not snap. John Watson thrived on difficulty. He was, after all, partnered with Sherlock Holmes, and that, if anything, proved how strong John needed to be.

Newborn babies are fed, on the average, about every two hours. They sleep a lot. John Watson knew this. He and Sherlock had planned for this. They had had experience with Siger, after all. The thing is, having twins is exponentially greater work than a single baby.

Add in an almost two-year-old, and there isn’t much time that is not taken up by childcare. Stir in Yuletide, and the continuing shortening of the days - well, there’s no time for anything but work. 

John didn’t have his locum work at the moment, because they had planned on this when the schedule for the babies’ birth was somewhat organized. The girls had come a tad early. Still, John was off work from the surgery for three months, as a sort of extended “daddy leave”.

The clinic staff and management understood. Holmes and Watson Investigations had planned this with Alice Brown. Money had been set aside to pay for the lack of incoming funding. John was getting into the swing of the schedule. Sherlock never needed to sleep anyway.

Siger had been disappointed that the babies were not going to share his room right away. They were staying the night in baskets next to the bed in John and Sherlock’s bedroom. Or that was the plan. Actually, Miranda and Rosalind were sleeping in the sitting room while Sherlock worked on his website, splayed out on the couch next to them. So far neither of them had demanded to be fed at the same time. It was easy enough to heat two bottles and be ready for first one, then the other.

Albert Tran was there to help as well, and Mrs. Hudson for a bit, although she had her own life, and would be catching the train for her sister’s on Christmas Eve day. Really, with four-ish adults, there should have been plenty of caring to go around. The thing is, if you’re a pair of adults having a child, you outnumber that offspring. The instant you have a second, you become the outnumbered. The ratio, at three to three-and-a-half, was unequal, so to speak. Especially when one of the children is a toddler. But really, every time that Bert or Mrs. Hudson or Sherlock went to do something one of the children, John was right there, already handling everything, often with a little shadow right behind him.

It was the third day after the twins came home that Sherlock forcibly thrust John and Siger out of the flat. “Go. Now,” Sherlock told them both as he handed John Siger’s backpack, “and don’t come back until you have used up all that energy!”

Siger had been attempting to play his father’s game of walking on the furniture. The word “Bored!” was thrown about casually as well. There are few things more embarrassing than having your own poor behavior shoved in your face by a child picking it up for his own. Siger was in peril of his life, for he did not have his father’s long legs, and could not actually reach from one piece of furniture to the other. There was, of course, a dire consequence and tears, and the toddler had required stitches.

It was a grey, rainy, London day. John needed action. He acknowledged this as he briskly pushed the stroller along the walks toward the park. Siger never went higher on the swings than that day. Siger’s daddy climbed to the top of the jungle gym and brought a delighted Siger with him. They ran, though it was mostly John running with Siger in his arms for a bit, then setting the toddler down to run in a space that would not obstruct others. 

Looking into the canvas knapsack for a nappy, John discovered that his partner had not only given them plenty of disposables for the day, but also bottles of water, snacks, and Siger’s little football. They spent some time running at the ball and kicking it as hard as Siger could manage. They then ran after it, Siger screaming with laughter, and sent it back the other way.

There was a small tantrum when Siger’s daddy required him to stop and rest on a bench, with a bottle of water and a small packet of fruit gummies. After the tears and shouting had stopped, they shared the snack, and John asked Siger what he wanted to do next.

“Daddy? We got shopping for Ross and M’randa for Christmas?” Siger asked cheerfully, tears still staining his cheeks.

John asked thoughtfully, “What did you have in mind, Siger?”

“Bees,” his little boy said seriously.

His daddy nodded. “Alright, we’ll go look for bees. You’ll have to ride in the stroller, though.”

That was agreeable, and Siger had a short nap while his father walked them both to the shops. It was only a short nap, and so he was a little cranky when John woke him at the first shop. 

There were not many bees available. Certainly there were no bees like Siger’s rubber ones. “Perhaps,” John put forward cautiously, “we can find something other than bees for Rosalind and Miranda? Perhaps they should each have their own animal?”

Siger had his heart set on bees, though. Until they found a little shop with all manner of creatures. He ran from one display to the next, exulting over the variety. It was there that they found soft plastic animals just the size of Siger’s bees. There were no bees - no insects at all, actually - but Siger was delighted to find a dragon, a giraffe, a hedgehog, an elephant, and an otter that met with his approval. He finally designated the hedgehog for Miranda, and the otter for Rosalind. He was insistent on which baby should receive each specific toy. He looked longingly at the dragon - “It is just the same as Auntie Harry’s rug, Daddy!” - but handed it to the shop girl when John told him it was time to go. “Goodbye, dragon,” he said sadly.

“Now,” said John as he wheeled Siger out of the store, “time to go home!” It had been no difficulty at all for the shopgirl to distract the little boy so that John could buy the little dragon without Siger’s notice.

“Daddy! Daddy!” Siger shouted a moment later, and John stopped to see what had caught his son’s attention. It was an Austrian bakery, and the window was filled with footed cut glass and china plates of pastries. Siger was not looking at the biscuits or cakes. He pointed at a long loaf covered with what looked like marzipan. “Daddy, for tea, please?”

“You want that for tea?” laughed John. “Siger, sweet, it’s too big. You won’t be able to eat it all.”

“It em for Daddy, an’ _Père_ , an’ Bert, an Mrs. Hudson. An’ Siger,” his son reassured him. “It em not for babies,” the toddler went on to inform his father.

“Well,” John said slowly, “we can give it a try.”

The man waiting behind the counter was quite possibly the second biggest man that John had ever seen. With a full black beard, a shaved head, and a row of piercings through his eyebrows, the sheer bulk of him might have given the Golem pause. “Hello. May I help you?” asked the giant. 

Siger was staring at him, cricking his neck to look all the way up. Then Siger shouted, “Hello!”

“Hi, little guy. What would you like to order?” the counter clerk asked with a smile.

“Yes. Hello.” It took John a moment, but he pointed at the long loaves behind the glass counter. “What are those?”

The giant answered, “That, my friend, is stollen.”

“What is it, exactly?” John asked.

“Stollen is a sweet bread. Eaten in Germany to celebrate Christmas,” the large man said pleasantly. “It’s studded with candied fruit and covered with marzipan.”

“What do you think, Siger? It’s not as sweet as cake. It’s like the hot cross buns we had last Lent.” John was unsure whether or not Siger would remember those. It had been such a long time since then - at least for someone growing as much as Siger.

Siger’s bee decided to join the conversation. Looking at John from Siger’s hand, it waggled as it told John, “Yus! We will have it for tea!”

The bee had never spoken to John before. He did not believe that it had talked to Sherlock either. This was a new development. “Okay,” he answered, then turned to the big man behind the counter. “One loaf of the stollen, please.”

“What is that?” the counterman asked. “A bee? Of course he would like sweet things, wouldn’t he?”

“He em a girl,” Siger told him seriously. “Bees em girls.”

“I beg your pardon, Ms. Bee,” responded the shopman. “Here you are, one loaf of stollen.”

John and Siger headed for home, while John mused on Siger’s using the bee to speak for himself. Siger buzzed along happily from his seat in the stroller. It was a longer walk back from the shops than to the park, and when they reached Baker Street Siger was more than happy to climb out of the stroller and let Daddy carry him up the stairs to 221B, rather than climbing them on his own.

The flat was empty, and so John texted Sherlock. “Where are you? Where are the babies? JW”

“Downstairs. 221C. Tea here for a change. SH”

The stollen was a welcome addition, although mostly Siger ate the marzipan off the top, and picked out the candied fruit rather than eating the yellow bread part of the slice. There was much chatting, and even a little bit of awake cooing from both of the babies. Siger and John did not hear all of that. They had fallen asleep on the sofa, the little boy curled up on his daddy’s lap, and the daddy curved around his son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so late. Christmas has caught me up in its clutches!
> 
> No song for this one. Have no found one on Stollen.


	23. Blue Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slowly finishing this. This bit is short. THanks for your patience!

It was quiet. Too quiet.

John came downstairs after putting Siger down for a nap. Sherlock had been stretched out on the sofa in pajama bottoms and a tee shirt all worn soft from washing. The babies had been stretched out on top of him asleep, cuddled on his narrow chest.

The sitting room was empty now. John sagged down into his worn armchair just as Sherlock emerged from the bedroom shooting the cuffs of his midnight blue button-up shirt. “Oh, John!” said his genius partner. Had he shaved?

“Why are you dressed up?” John struggled to remember any engagements.

Sherlock strode as purposely as one could across the small space that was the sitting room. He pulled his tailored trousers up carefully before he went down on one knee in front of the startled John Watson. John had seen him kneel much less carefully at crime scenes with much more expensive trousers. And he was patting his pockets.

John, frozen for an instant, jumped up and ran from the room, the bedroom door slamming behind him.

Sherlock stopped, kneeling on the floor of the sitting room, staring at the empty chair. The slam of the bedroom door resounded in his ears. A small, square box with a rounded lid weighed heavily in his hand. This was not his area. He had told John that. What should he do now?

It was with bewilderment that he realized that his short, blond partner was now kneeling on the wooden floor in his worn jeans and holiday jumper. A rugby sock was thrust out at him.

A rugby sock. One of John’s socks from the infrequent adventures he went on with Lestrade from time to time. Why was John handing him a sock? 

This was not that type of exchange. Raising his eyes to search John’s blue ones, Sherlock heard, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Sherlock.”

Turning the stocking inside out, John’s capable surgeon’s hands revealed a similar box, flocked and dark blue. 

“Oh,” was Sherlock’s response.

“What do we do now?” John asked with a grin.

“John…” Sherlock began the speech he had rehearsed and got stuck. “This is not my area.” He stopped. “John. Marry me.”

“Sherlock,” John echoed him, “marry me.” Then he added, “Make an honest man of me.”

Dryly, the taller man told him, “You are already honest enough. Some would say too much so.”

“Yes, well.” John didn’t think his grin could get any wider.

“So, this is a yes?” Sherlock asked. “Just to be clear?”

“Yes. And you’re agreeing to my proposal?” John returned cockily.

Sherlock was silent for a heartbeat. He answered, “We belong together, John Watson.”

John opened the jewelry box. Inside lay a gold ring engraved on the outside with hexagons marching around the band. Sherlock could see that there was an inscription.

Belatedly, he opened his box, long-fingered hand shaking. The plain white gold slipped out of the box. It jumped out, falling to be caught by John Watson’s capable hand. John turned it over, holding the circle of precious metal in the light to read the engraving: “SH + JW. Illuminating.”

John carefully lifted his own box to allow Sherlock to pick up the ring. He did so carefully. Inside, the ring read: “JW + SH. Brilliant.”

“You said, once, that we should be committed,” Sherlock reminded him.

“I did,” John admitted. “I still think so. But as crazy as it is, I love you. And I want to marry you.”

Sherlock sighed. “Now you know I hate being repetitive, John. But I have to be to say that I love you. And I want to marry you.”

John leaned forward, Sherlock leaned forward, and their lips met. Then Sherlock’s long arms encircled John’s solid body and pulled him into a clinch. They stayed that way, snogging on the sitting room floor, until a thin cry sounded from their bedroom. That was followed by another hungry baby announcing her presence. Upstairs, a thump sounded on the floorboards.

“Well,” Sherlock said as he pulled away reluctantly.

“Ahem, yes. Why don’t we switch, and I’ll feed the babies, and you can change Siger. Then we’ll figure out a way to tell the children over tea.”


	24. Hark the Glad Sound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Eve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the lateness of this posting. Tomorrow I will post Christmas Day to finish the story.
> 
> Also, thank you to Lunamoth116 for betareading this!

“I em gettin’ married!” Siger shouted to the dark-skinned man covered up to his ears in winter gear, despite the unseasonably warm weather. Granted, it was raining. The man gave a look at the two men standing with the toddler and bent his head over the tree he was holding.

“Don’t mind him, kid,” said another man who, to Siger’s eye, could have been a twin to the first. “He don’t speak English.”

“ _Père? En Français_.” Siger looked up at his father.

“ _Je me marrie, Siger_ , and I don’t know the Nam Viet for it. You’ll have to ask Bert. But I would not infer that the gentleman will understand you in Nam Viet or French either,” his father told him.

“ _Je parle français,_ ” came a soft voice as the first man gave the boy a shy smile.

By the time they left the Christmas tree lot, Siger had engaged the man in a good deal of inconsequential conversation. The man told the little boy about his own small daughters, and his wife in a faraway country. In some ways, Sherlock reflected, his son was very much like John Watson.

Siger had been telling everyone they met after leaving 221B, ever since John and Sherlock had sat down with their son and told him that they were engaged to be married, and even before they left the house on Baker Street.

Of course, first he had asked, “What is that?” It was one of Siger’s favorite phrases.

“Marriage is a social and legal contract between two consenting adults to live together and share financial responsibilities,” Sherlock told Siger.

“Okay,” said Siger, who then shook his bee at his _père_ before beginning to play the violin with it. 

Sherlock blinked. He deduced, and correctly, that Siger had listened, but had not understood his explanation. John was laughing at Sherlock. Arching eyebrows at his communications specialist, the detective deferred to the other man.

Clearing his throat, John gave Siger a hug. Siger looked up. John began, “Siger, _Père_ and I are going to get married. Okay?”

“Okay, Daddy.” This reply was to be expected. After all, a two-year-old is not going to throw teen angst about. Not for a long time, John hoped, anyway.

“Do you have any questions?” John asked.

The bee chose that moment to ask, “What is married?” The bee’s voice was like Siger’s, only squeakier. For some reason John had expected the bee’s voice to buzz.

John counted his blessings that it was the bee and not the violin speaking. He tried very hard not to look at Sherlock, who had never encountered the bee speaking before. “I love your father, your _père_ , and he loves me.”

“Yes,” said the bee.

“And we will stay together always,” John told the bee and Siger.

“Yes,” said the bee.

“So we will go to the local Register’s Office, and fill out the paperwork. Next month we will say our vows, and your father and I will be married.”

“Yes -” the violin started to say to them, but Siger caught himself, and the bee repeated, “Yes!”

And then the bee asked, “What is vows?”

John smiled and told the little bee, and his little boy, “That is when we promise to always love each other and stay together.”

He went on, uncertain of how much an almost two-year-old would understand. “Like Mr. and Mrs. Alexander at the park. And Mr. and Mrs. Smythe at the church.” He searched his memory for a same-sex example. What were the actual names of Mrs. Turner’s married ones? “Like Jesse and Tim,” he finished.

“Which em Mrs.?” Siger wanted to know.

“We will both be Misters, Siger, because we are both men. Mrs is for females. For women.” John hoped that was simple enough.

“Siger loves Daddy. An’ _père_. I stay with Daddy an’ _Père_. I get married too,” the little boy said with a certain amount of satisfaction.

And nothing they said after that made any difference. 

Siger announced, “We em gettin’ married!” to Mrs. Hudson on her way out the door, to Miss Alice Brown, to Bert, to Mr. Padraig the postman, and to Mr. Chatterjee, who was sweeping at the door of Speedy’s. Siger found the Records office uninteresting. He announced to the perky clerk, “We ah gettin’ married!” (Sherlock, having reached his breaking point with Siger’s grammar, had corrected it in the taxicab when Siger told the taxi driver that they were getting married.) After that, his fathers filled out paperwork while Siger sat on an uncomfortable chair with his violin and bee. Siger knew about paperwork from Miss Alice Brown. One should not be distracting when someone was filling out paperwork. He especially knew that paperwork should not be touched with messy fingers. And that no one should use paperwork to color on, or to make paper airplanes with. _Père_ had gotten into trouble with that last.

“Done!” John came to pick up Siger, who was more than ready to be held.

“ _Finally_ ,” moaned Sherlock.

“Now we ah married?” Siger asked hopefully.

His Daddy laughed. “No, Siger. We just filled out the paperwork. We have to wait a while before the wedding.”

“A wedding,” Sherlock inserted smoothly, “is when your daddy and I make our promises. Our vows, as he told you before.”

“We go now. We ah not married.” Siger sounded disappointed.

“Not yet, Siger.” John gave his little boy a hug.

“We should be getting back to Baker Street,” Sherlock said while checking his mobile, “if we hope to make it there before Jeanette.”

“Flute!” Siger had regained his joy. 

Mycroft’s driver timed Jeanette’s arrival to coincide with theirs. Dressed in a bright red holiday jumper and slim slacks, she brought flaky pastries for Christmas Eve tea. Sherlock took Siger upstairs to the nursery to get changed before tea, while John settled Jeanette in Mrs. Hudson’s flat. Then all of them converged on the kitchen.

The tree had been delivered as well, and set up in the sitting room, and Siger explored it (carefully) while the adults put their meal together.

They chose not to attend Christmas Eve services, electing instead to have a nice quiet Christmas Eve in. With a little music from Jeanette’s flute and Sherlock’s violin, the babies cooing in their swing, and Siger and John singing along to the hymns, they shared the story with each other. 

The children were finally put to bed. John brought out the decorations for the tree. He and Sherlock worked together to dress the pine tree. Jeanette put her stocking up, then kept them company.

It was with music in their ears that they all dropped off to sleep. Siger heard his Daddy singing, his father playing the violin, and Jeanette playing on her flute. Jeanette went to bed that night with the memory of Siger’s carols in her ears.


	25. I'll Be Home For Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!
> 
> And thank you to Lunamoth116 for beta-reading and giving me ideas!

Stage One: Awakening

Grey, watery light crept in past the edges of heavy drapes. The covers had been kicked down, but John was still warm from the large and lanky consulting detective who was wrapped around his body. Over the monitor came the sound of Siger singing up in his room, but not calling for them yet. Soft baby breathing sounded from the baskets on the floor by the bed.

They had not stayed up late the night before, but he did not fight falling back to sleep. When he woke again, it was to Siger singing, closer this time. “Daddy!” Siger shouted when John rolled over onto his side to look. “I em helpin’ feed the babies!”

Scrubbing a hand over his eyes, John took in Sherlock, with his back to the headboard, Siger snuggled into his side, and Rosalind on her father’s lap receiving her bottle. Miranda lay, mostly swaddled, on the bed between. She gave him a wave of her arm while looking at the line of light streaking across the far wall. “Good morning, John,” Sherlock said quietly.

John sat up, hair standing on end. “Daddy,” Siger laughed, and left his father to climb onto John, attempting to force the hair down. 

“Breakfast in the sitting room, John,” Sherlock continued as though Siger was not wrestling about in the bedclothes.

“Alright. Siger, let’s get dressed, shall we?” John hauled the toddler off his head and told him, “We can wear our Christmas jumpers!” to the boy’s excitement, and his partner’s chagrin.

Stage Two: Breakfast, stockings, the tree and presents.

Breakfast was strong tea (made by John), dried cranberry and orange scones (made by Mrs. Hudson before she had left for her sister’s), and a cut fruit salad created by Sherlock and Siger before the others had woken. There had been no getting the boy past the tree without seeing the decorations this year. The girls ticked back and forth in their swings while Jeanette, Sherlock, John, and Siger (in his chair) sat on the floor around the coffee table and ate. There was a good deal of chatter. Siger told Flute all about picking out the Christmas tree, and the man they had met at the tree lot. Before John and Siger handed round the stockings - there was one for Jeanette as well - Siger was given a small pasteboard box topped with a red satin bow. John helped him to open it. Inside Siger found a small ornament made of marzipan. It was a cunningly wrought violin. 

“Come now, Siger.” Sherlock hoisted his son up - not too high - to place the ornament onto the already well-decorated tree.

“Mines, ornament!” the toddler said cheerfully.

This year Siger was much more interested in the components of his stocking, playing with the nuts in their shells, the orange, a marzipan mouse, and a set of juggling balls that Sherlock had insisted on purchasing. John had given in, they were too large to be a choking hazard for any of the children. 

Siger very generously assisted his sisters in unpacking their stockings - lovely ornate decorations given by Uncle Mycroft to match their big brother’s. It did not bother the boy at all that his sisters wouldn’t focus on the items that he removed from the stockings, placing the bottles, soft flannels, and other baby items carefully in the big bowls on the floor next to the swing. “They ah babies, Flute. They will grow!” he told Jeanette.

Boxes under the tree enticed Siger from his duties as big brother. The largest was, of course, the potty chair, which Siger insisted on immediately helping his daddy set up in the loo. After that there was the box, which Siger put to good use as a pirate ship. Siger loved his presents, but even more he loved the wrapping paper, which he was allowed to tear, and the boxes; those that he could not climb into, he used for construction.

Jeanette looked at the gaily-wrapped packet in her lap. Conflicting emotions raced about inside: a pang in her chest, nervous stomach, a slight flush in her cheeks. The size and shape of the packet would give one to think it might be monetary. It was not that she couldn’t use the money. Even though Jeanette was not a starving musician living in a rat-infested garrett, one can always build up a tidy buffer - even if one is comfortably off. Money, however, is not a very personal gift. She had been enjoying the solidarity of this little family, and her inclusion in it.

Sherlock was watching her with his gimlet gaze. John gave her that warm grin and said, “Go on, open it!” 

Siger offered, “Help, Flute?” though he was sitting inside his box, clutching the new “big boy pants” to his jumper-clad chest as though he was afraid they would run away if he put them down.

“No, thank you, Siger.” Jeanette smiled and said, “But you may sit with me if you’d like while I open it.”

Siger climbed out of the box and up onto the sofa beside her, placing his new pants in his lap and looking up at her expectantly. Sliding a freshly manicured fingernail under the cello tape - pregnancy does wonders for nail and hair growth - Jeanette pulled open the wrapping and slipped out the contents. A plane ticket leaving Heathrow on 26/12 for Montpellier-Méditerranée airport. A receipt for a rental car with all amenities to be picked up at the airport. The confirmation of payment for Maison d'hotes La Boca from the twenty-sixth through the New Year. They were sending her home to Sommieres.

That distinctive baritone inquired, “Your family will be staying through the New Year? We thought you would like to join them. And that perhaps a private space after this rather crowded month might be appreciated.”

Internally, Sherlock cursed himself for sounding so much like his elder brother. John’s shining eyes locked onto his, and the dark-curled genius could feel the enjoyable effects of positive reinforcement. Siger was anxiously asking Flute why she was crying, and Jeanette spilled the paperwork from her lap as she swept him into the hug she could not give his fathers. “ _Merci,_ ” she said finally, wiping the tears from her eyes, and smudging the liner terribly.

They had time to play before the caterers arrived with Christmas lunch. Bert arrived, and Siger showed him how he could sit on a tied bin bag filled with wrapping paper.

Stage Three: Christmas Lunch

Once the meal was presented, they served themselves. The crisp brown skin of the goose gleamed under lit tapers, surrounded by a bowl of chestnut dressing, oven-roasted brussel sprouts, honey-roasted carrots and parsnips, and mash. The gravy boat sat to one side, ready to provide rich brown gravy. Bright red orange-cranberry sauce made the table festive. Siger had never seen chippolatas before, wrapped in streaky bacon in their server. There was wine, and conversation, and every so often an adult would get up and attend to one of the children who required feeding, changing, or moving about.

Siger’s eyes grew round as saucers when John brought in the flaming plum pudding, looking very like the tea cozy Mrs. Hudson had made for them this year. Coffee afterward (not for Siger) stretched out over the afternoon, as Siger napped on the sofa between his fathers. 

Bert and Jeanette played quiet, but intense games of backgammon until it was time for the Queen’s Christmas message. Eventually John got up to wash up, dragging the table back into the kitchen with help from Bert. Food was sealed and labeled - so as not to be confused with lab cultures - and placed on the food shelves of the refrigerator. 

Stage Four: Afters

John pulled back the drape from the front window. “It’s raining again. Warm, though. Do we want to go for a walk anyway?”

Rosalind began to cry, a thin whining sound, a demand for her bottle that seemed to argue against the outing. Miranda joined her a moment later. No, going out into the rain for a stroll might be good for digestion, but taking two newborns out in it was just not on.

Bert suggested Cluedo instead. “No!” John said with a good deal of emphasis. Games of backgammon followed instead, which John, surprisingly, won steadily. Those not playing the board game joined Siger on the floor with his periodical blocks, building magnificent castles that soon began to take over the sitting room floor. They incorporated books, knick-knacks, and Mrs. Hudson’s plum pudding tea cozy into the construction.

Laughter from the doorway advertised the arrival of Greg Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes, still shaking the rainwater from their hair. Soon enough the government official and the detective inspector had joined the party on the floor, creating ever more intricate buildings for Siger’s castle.

“Oh!” Siger shouted from under the tree, where he’d gone after the juggling balls.. “We ah giving presents to Unka Mycoft and Unka Lllllestrad! We hev forgot them!” The red-curled head reappeared, pushing two small pasteboard boxes in front of him.

Nothing would do but for John to get down Mycroft’s and Greg’s stocking from the mantel as well. Mycroft handed Siger presents for himself and his sisters to open - music CDs of classical pieces. Lestrade laughed at the marzipan shield he’d received; this year it bore the sigil of the Metropolitan Police. “I ate mine from last year,” he confided to John. “Mycroft painted his with lacquer. It’s still in the glass-fronted cupboard in his music room.”

Mycroft, opening his box to reveal another marzipan umbrella, partially open, with a rainbow interior, and said his thank-you’s gravely: “This is lovely. Thank you, Sherlock, John, and Siger.”

“You see mine, Unka Mycoft?” Siger was dancing around him and pointing to a section of the tree about two-thirds of the way up. Nestled in the green branches was the small marzipan violin.

“Indeed, Siger,” Mycroft told him. “That is very like what your _père_ used to get from your Grandfather Holmes. It is a wonderful thing!”

There was more food, and fellowship. Harriet arrived soon after with interesting examples of knitting, and received the dragon ornament that Siger had chosen for her. Sherlock unlimbered his bow and played carols on the violin. Jeanette fetched her flute and joined him in duet. John sang, with Siger on his lap, and Mycroft, Greg and Bert joined in. The tiny girls watching from their swing seemed amazed at all the fuss. They cooed rather than sang, their eyes on Mycroft in his three-piece suit, marveling at the dark against his pale skin perhaps.

After the impromptu concert had wound down, Greg Lestrade pulled a small packet from his jacket hanging on the wall pegs. “Siger,” he said, “this is for you to play on until you’re old enough to learn another instrument.”

The paper was gone in an instant, and the little boy bent his ginger-curled head over a piece of red wood. “What is it, Unka Lllestrad? It is small!”

“Just the right size, Siger. It’s a kazoo. You need to hum into it, just here.” Pointing at a hole in the side, he asked, “Can you hum?” The silver-haired man hummed in example; Siger followed suit. “That’s right! Now hum into the hole!”

Delight! Joy shone on the toddler’s face. Mycroft and Sherlock’s held startlement, while John, Harriet, Bert, and Jeanette laughed. “I wish I’d thought of that,” Bert told Greg and John.

Siger decided that he would use the kazoo to talk to his bees, and had to be persuaded to put the toys down when it was time to clean up the block city. John carefully tucked the kazoo into his pocket: “So you don’t lose it, sweet.”

Stage Five: Bedtime

Jeanette could hear the bedtime ritual upstairs. It was not just the sounds of movement on the floorboards over her head, and noises down the stairs. They’d set up the baby monitor as well, so she could hear every aspect.

Sherlock was saying, “What would you like to hear tonight, Siger?”

John, changing Siger on the dresser, added, “Last year we read from _Wind in the Willows._ That’s Daddy’s favorite. But tonight it’s your turn to choose.”

Siger’s choice was _Santa Mouse_ , which Sherlock found the least objectionable of their collection of Christmas picture books. Then John was heard reading _How The Grinch Stole Christmas_ by Dr. Seuss. It was longer than Jeanette remembered.

The sounds of movement traveled out of the room, then down the stairs, and Sherlock and John joined Jeanette in the sitting room. John was grinning. Sherlock gave him a sour look and told Jeanette, “He took that kazoo to bed with him. He’s sleeping with it, with the teddy you got for him, with that dragon toy John got him, and of course with his violin, his bees, his Lambkin, and his football. Eventually he won’t fit into the bed anymore.”

Jeanette answered, “I’m just glad he liked the bear. What do you get for a boy who has most everything interesting? Something ordinary.”

“He has named the bear ‘Ursus’,” John told her. “He just told me before we put him to bed.”

“How does he know Latin at his age?” Jeanette asked as she took a sip of mulled wine.

Sherlock snorted. “His Uncle Mycroft.”

John was putting their daughters to bed. In each basket the newly-fed, freshly nappied child was placed with a new teddy bear: rose-red with a white ribbon round the neck for Rosalind, and a white-as-snow with a red-ribboned one for Miranda.

Jeanette gave them a last look before going to her own rest down in the Mrs. Hudson’s flat. “They’re remarkable children, John,” she told the shorter man.

“Thank you,” John said. “Thank you for bringing them to us.”

He checked to make sure the house was locked up and the kitchen was tidy before heading to bed himself and turning out the lights. Sherlock was waiting for him in their big bed, typing speedily on John’s laptop, as his was all the way over on the bedside table. “Something on?” John asked his partner.

“No, no. Just keeping up with the forensics journals. Shall I put out the light?” Sherlock looked up at him with those luminous eyes.

“No.” John shucked his clothes and climbed in under the bedclothes. “Take your time. I expect I’ll fall asleep with the light on.”

Sherlock stopped his clicking at the keyboard, leaned over and kissed John. “Merry Christmas, John.”

John’s pleased smile could be heard as he said, “Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony Bennett singing "I'll Be Home For Christmas". 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8T1ft2VYe14


End file.
